


I'll See You In San Juan

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Coulson needs to be hit on the head with something heavy, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hollywood blacklisting, Los Angeles, McCarthysm, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Dancing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, not Grant Ward friendly, past Coulson/Audrey, what is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1948 and production is about to start on the new epic "I'll See You In San Juan". Film director Phil Coulson has a leading man already but casting an actress for the main role is proving more difficult. Until he meets an aspiring starlet at a Malibu party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Star Is Born

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RowboatCop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/gifts).



> _When I work on a picture is like romancing a girl. You see her, you want her, you go after her. The big moment._  
>  The Bad and the Beautiful.

"I'm looking for an objection I haven't already anticipated."

The meeting in his office goes as good (or as bad) as he had expected.

That's why he had signed all the contracts in such a haste. So that this meeting with May and Ward is just that, something informal to listen to their grievances. Is he being tyrannical? Well, he's hardly the most tyrannical director Hollywood has ever known. And Fury wouldn't have given him absolute creative control if he didn't think he could pull it off.

The three of them right here – director, assistant director and leading man – should figure it out. Between them, on Coulson's desk, the shooting script to the epic _I'll See You In San Juan_. War, romance, songs. And for once Coulson really likes the screenplay. For the first time in a long time Coulson really likes his chances.

"With all due respect, sir –" Ward starts again.

"That doesn't sound very respectful." Coulson points out.

The young man's frown deepens.

He can understand Ward's frustration, his anxiety; this was supposed to be his big break, this movie was the one that would complete the transition from Hollywood heartrob to A-lister. Coulson is probably messing with that plan, casting a virtual unknown for a part that should have gone to Bergman or Joan Fontaine. Someone who could prop him up and make sure millions of people would go see his handsome face. Not an untrained nobody who would take a while to get the hang of things. To be fair Coulson himself feels tempted to kick himself for it. One of those things that seem like a good idea at night but then you face the ramifincations in the morning.

Coulson feels for Ward, he really does.

But.

"I've made my decision."

It's such a Hollywood story, after all. They should be more on board. Starlet gets discovered by director at a party. He could sell that to the magazines. Like it was fate. Like he and Skye were meant to meet and he was meant to offer her this part. Isn't it magical? And after all that's what everybody in this place is looking for, magic.

"She is not a professional," his leading actor goes on. "She knows nothing about how the business works."

"That's refreshing," Coulson replies.

Meaning it's refreshing to him. The business. He has never felt like he fits in it, not completely. Maybe bringing in an outsider like Skye was the only real choice he has ever made in his career. It's the first time he has argued about casting – with the producers, with his actors, with May. It must mean something. In a city where nothing means a damn thing Coulson is curious enough to follow that feeling. What can he lose, other than a ton of money and his reputation?

Ward takes his hat in his hands.

"She doesn't even have a last name," he points out before taking the door.

Coulson sighs audibly.

Every picture is an uphill battle but he never meant to start at such a disadvantage. An unknown leading lady for a three million dollar production. What was he thinking? But he had been stuck, for over a year, and his last picture – an ill-conceived adventure shot in Tahiti for over twice its initial budget – had flopped in a way Coulson wasn't used to. He knows people made concessions because he was almost killed that summer. His head hadn't been in the game, he admits.

Until he met Skye.

"I agree with Ward," May is saying. 

"I knew you would," Coulson tells her. She's cautious and it's a good thing one of them is.

"The studio detectives couldn't find a thing on the girl."

"I know. She told me she didn't have a family."

"You believe her?"

Coulson shoves his hands in his pockets. He'll have to get back to her on that.

"She's an unknown variable," May adds.

"And you don't like those, I know."

He is just staring at May now, pleading with her in silence. He knows she'll support him, even if she thinks he's full of it. Melinda is the toughest woman in town but Coulson knows he is her soft spot. He tries not to exploit it too much.

"Come on, May. It's a chance to do things our way," he tells May.

"You mean _your way_?" she says. 

"Maybe."

"It's the only way you've ever known."

 

+

 

_A conversation by the sea. That's all it took._

_Coulson met her because he wasn't a fan of parties, and who could blame him._

_He had been looking at the ocean for god knows how long. Didn't even feel the cold. He had wanted a bit of peace but this wasn't peace. The sea was roaring, scary. But it was better than inside the house, where everybody forced smiles upon him and asked how he was feeling, and Coulson could never tell if they were asking about his "accident" or about him breaking his engagement with his girlfriend or about his latest picture. Knowing these people it was probably the latter. He wouldn't have minded, normally, but all those things were in his mind all the time. He had hoped to drown that noise walking out the veranda and down the little secluded beach. He came right to the edge of the water._

_"Are you going to get in? You're not going to drown yourself, are you?" a voice said next to him._

_He turned around and a girl had walked up to his side._

_"What? No."_

_The girl was wearing a red dress that wasn't elegant at all. She was barefoot, burying her toes in the wet sand, holding her shoes in her hand. Cheap shoes. Coulson pitied her immediately._

_She shrugged. Not an elegant gesture at all. "It's just that you looked like you might."_

_"I just wanted some fresh air."_

_"Are you okay?"_

_Nobody had asked him that question in ages. Or if they did it didn't feel like it to Coulson. And then this young woman, this stranger with her shoes in her hand and the ridiculous red dress, she was asking like she really wanted to know. It was a shock to the system. Her scar ached._

_He was a bit disturbed by the company. She looked like an apparition – maybe it was just Coulson's mood that night – with moonlight bouncing off her skin and the wind pushing her hair into her face._

_"Do you know the host?" he asked._

_"Mr Quinn? Everybody knows him."_

_That was true and the reason everybody wanted to come to his house in the first place. And if Coulson wasn't fond of parties he was even less fond of people like Ian Quinn. But that was the price of trying to make a picture in this town. You had to mingle._

_Coulson looked at the ocean. Out here Los Angeles didn't look so bad._

_"Why are you out here?" he asked the girl. "Shouldn't you be back there with everybody?"_

_Shouldn't you be back there "working the room"? After all that was what these parties were to women like this. Opportunities. Coulson never blamed them. He felt less sympathy for those who took advantage of girls like this one standing next to him._

_"I'm not a fan of parties," she replied, starting out at the dark waves in front of them._

_Coulson took a long look at her for the first time, at her face. Pretty, he was kind of startled he hadn't seen her before. Somewhere._

_"My name is–"_

_"I know who you are, Mr Coulson."_

_He arched an eyebrow at her. "You have me at a disadvantage."_

_"Girls prefer it that way."_

_Was she flirting with him? He was normally good at telling. Lately, not so much. She was too young for him, but that never seemed to matter in this city._

_"The film director," she adds._

_"That's me."_

_"I heard you were out of circulation for a while."_

_"I got stabbed in the heart," Coulson told her._

_"That's horrible."_

_He normally told it like it was just a story, a quaint anecdote, and his audience usually received it like that. No pity, no human compassion. L.A. didn't have any of that to spare. This girl had been the first one to sound like she was really sorry he had to go through all that. His agent had said it was great publicity – and his agent was one of his oldest friends in the world._

_"You're working again?" she asked._

_Here it was, though. Snooping around. First she would ask if he was working and on what. Then she would steer the conversation trying to find out if there was a part in it for her. Coulson considered the dress, the shoes, the fact that he hadn't seen her before. A one-day bit would do. Maybe he should give it to her, he thought. He was tired but not without humanity._

_"Yeah, I'm working again."_

_"Good. You're decent at it. And you wrote those _Captain America_ shorts during the war," she said. "I liked those."_

_Coulson didn't like to remember about that._

_"A lot of people worked on those shorts, it was a team of writers."_

_"A humble Hollywood player. I thought you didn't existed."_

_"I met him once," Coulson told her. "Captain America. Shook his hand."_

_He was showing off a bit here. He realized. And he normally didn't have to._

_"You met Steve Rogers?" the girl repeats. "Now I'm impressed."_

_"So you weren't before?"_

_A slow smile. There was an unsettling quality to the girl. She looked like she was keeping a couple of secrets._

_"You used to be an actor, too," she said._

_Coulson grimaced. "I wouldn't go that far. And don't remind me."_

_He had tried his hand at acting, like everybody in this town. This bit here and there, in the early 1930s. Fortunately he was a lot more successful writing and directing. Fortunately for the audiences, that is._

_The girl on the beach looked at him squarely, touching her fingers to her mouth._

_"Oh I don't know, I saw you in _The Con Artist_ , you weren't half bad."_

_That had been a whole lifetime ago. A very small role in an similarly forgettable Bette Davis stinker. He was glad not many people remembered that. The girl did._

_He had the feeling she was, indeed, flirting with him. An old story, hungry-for-fame girl meets a man at a party, a man she thinks can help make her dreams come true. It's an old story and a sad one and nobody really ever wins. Well, Hollywood wins. It always does._

_"And you? Are you an actress?"_

_Of course she was. Like everybody else._

_She nods. "For now I'm just singing every Thursday at The Tide. If you want to come by."_

_"The Tide? That's on the east side. Right?"_

_She seemed taken aback by his tone. It wasn't really his tone, he wanted to say, just the tone he had been using for the past thirty years._

_"You don't approve?" she asked._

_Coulson looked at her from head to toe. "I haven't decided yet."_

_She disappeared back into the noise of the wind and the waves, as suddenly as she had arrived at Coulson's side._

_She hadn't even asked him for a job._

_Later he asked around if anyone knew such a girl. He didn't even have her name._

 

+

 

"Creepy," Skye says.

Because it is. An empty stage. This big.

The whole place is creepy. The whole studio. She crossed a whole regiment of Austrian infantry soldiers from the early 19th century as she was walking here. What an image first thing in the morning. What exactly has she signed up for?

"How much is the budget again?" she asks Leo Fitz, the DP.

"Let me show you my equipment," he says.

And by that he means his cameras.

He tells Skye he was assistant to Gregg Toland before graduating to his own work with SHIELD Pictures. He also tells her the camera they are going to use on _I'll See You In San Juan_ is an altered Mitchell. He made the alterations himself. Skye tries to keep up with the whole conversation about deep focus and the style in _The Long Voyage Home_ but she is quite literally out of her depth.

"People think you have to use a composite of two different shots if you want both foreground and background in focus but no, you don't, silly," he is telling her with enthusiam. "You just need to make new lenses and new stock. The right ones. It's all in advancing the technology."

"I can see that," Skye says, smiling at the guy.

A woman named Jemma Simmons joins them, another colleague. She had a British accent, like Fitz. Skye files the information away. She has to pay attention to these details. That's why she's here.

"I came up with the emulsion that made him winner of an Oscar at twenty-two," Simmons explains.

Fitz gives the pronouncement quite the blank look but Skye can't help but being impressed.

"You won an Oscar?"

Simmons clears her throat.

"She has two," Fitz says.

"Set decorator, part time chemistry _aficionado_ ," she says, shaking Skye's hand. She's still impressed. They look so young. Obviously Phil Coulson plays in the big leagues and he is able to pull exactly what he promised. "But honestly, I don't know why Coulson chose to shoot this in black and white. It's suppossed to be an epic. Epics are in color. Don't we have all that money for something?"

"He said he didn't want the war scenes to be – _entertaiment_."

"Curious words for someone who earns his living entertaining people," Skye comments. Curious man, Coulson, she decides, and she is not sure how to file that detail away for further use.

The other two seem to ignore her statement.

"But you love shooting in color, Fitz."

"One of the many sacrificies I've had to make for the cause."

"Have you read the script?" Simmons asks her.

"Yes. It's good."

"Isn't it? We're very glad to have you with us."

It's probably not true, Skye knows she doesn't bring in the glamour of a big name, but Jemma Simmons smiles warmly at her anyway.

They seem like a good bunch, all of them. Even Ward. Good people, she means. It complicates things, of course, but she hadn't anticipated that she'd like them right away, that she would begin to form ties so quickly. Then there is Phil Coulson and the way he is, rough but with eyes full of forgotten kindness, and she hadn't been expecting that at all. This was supposed to be easier.

First day on the job and she is already feeling guilty. That won't do. She has a mission.

Speaking of Ward there he goes, crossing the sound stage towards the dressing rooms, ignoring Fitz's and Simmons' combined and overlapping _good mornings_ s, just walking all straight and handsome and broody. Skye knows herself and she can already tell he is going to be a problem.

"What is wrong with him?" she asks the other two. "He's barely spoken to me and we are supposed to be this big romantic couple. Did you see the press conference?"

The press conference had been pretty bleak, personally, but at least the journalists seemed to think she and Ward made a good couple. Fitz had anticipated a technical problem with the height difference. She had been surprised at the idea. For having lived in Los Angeles most of her life Skye knew very little of how the movies were actually made. She still thinks they are kind of magic.

"Oh, Ward is all right, don't pay attention," Simmons says.

"Yeah," Fitz agrees. "It's just that he thought he was going to get Lana Turner as co-star and not some..."

"Some unknown untried girl," Simmons finishes.

"Thank you," Skye says. The sarcasm is lost on the two professionals.

"You haven't seen your dressing room yet," Simmons exclaims enthusiatically (maybe conciliatorily) at Skye.

"I have a dressing room?"

For herself.

Shiny and new and big.

And somebody has already left flowers for her on the table. 

 

+

 

_He hadn't meant to go to the club to see her again._

_He had meant to forget all about his strange encounter on the beach. He wasn't even supposed to be at Quinn's party that night, but his agent thought it was a good idea, to get people talking about the picture. He was supposed to be publicist for a night. Perfectly forgettable, except for the part where he kept going back to the strangers's voice, her tone when she asked him if he was okay._

_It wasn't in his plans to get swept away by the – possibly sad, maybe even tragic, and entirely too predictable – drama of another lonely girl aiming to see her name in big letters in a premiere, spotlight piercing the skies, at Grauman's._

_But he couldn't stop himself. He was curious._

_He hadn't been curious about something in a long time. That alone might be worth the trip to a less salubre part of town than his house on Shoreham Drive, and it was definitely worth the club's entrance fee of thirty cents._

_The Tide was a third rate joint, a basement one, and had a sort of reputation. The bad sort. The sort that might get the studio into trouble if this girl were in the payroll. But she wasn't so Coulson decided to take a seat near the stage and just enjoyed the show. He looked around – mixed company, but then again, who else would give a job to a girl that looked like that?_

_Her pianist was a white man, though, another attractive youth and they had good rapport on stage. They did standards, mostly. Then again no one expected anything else from such a place. And Coulson had been in a hundred of them, scouting musicians, background types for musicals. The quality of the scotch varied but the places were all the same._

_They started with "You Go To My Head". Fitting in a way. This itching feeling Coulson had when he recalled their conversation at Quinn's Malibu house. But by the time the girl did her particular rendition of "Ain't Misbehaving" (and Coulson knew she had spotted him among the audience because she had looked directly at him, un impressed) Coulson was kind of uncomfortably charmed by her. He wasn't in the business of "discovering" stars – he left that to the agents and the journos and the pervs._

_Of course he hadn't taken a good look at her at the beach, it had been too dark. Moonlight-tinted glasses. But she was still striking under the limelights. She was wearing a backless black dress, still too humble for what he was used to, but effective. She had presence even if she didn't know how to use it yet. Those eyes. The brown skin. That smile he couldn't be sure if it was genuine or fake. The camera would love her._

_And she could sing._

_At least she could sing well enough for the pictures._

_Pity she wasn't under contract anywhere. Coulson would pay the ticket._

_He needed someone who could sing for _I'll See You In San Juan_ , for the lead, but it couldn't be this girl. He had a big budget. He needed a star._

_Even so, he still waited for her to finish her set and invited her to a drink._

_"We can go someplace else," he tried. Meaning someplace nicer. He could take her to Ciro's or Mocambo, that was what he usually did when he was trying to convinced an actress to work for him. His move, so to speak._

_"What's wrong with right here?" she asked._

_She was a nobody. There was no need to seduce her with his influence all along Sunset Strip. Prove he was a big shot. There was no need to seduce her._

_"I wasn't lying the other night," she was telling him. "I like your pictures, Mr Coulson."_

_"Not the last one, I hope."_

_"No, not the last one. I'm sorry."_

_He found himself laughing genuinely at the tone and then he found himself grabbing the girl by the elbow, escorting her outside._

_She lived in East Adams, of course. How could she ever be a star? There was absolutely no chance._

_"Let me drive you home, it's a bad neighborhood."_

_Skye throws her head back and laughs a bit. "Thank you. No, thank you."_

_"Did I say something wrong?"_

_"No, it's just that I walk home every Thursday night. Without you. I'm fine."_

_"Okay."_

_"Let me walk you to your car, Mr Coulson. It's a bad neighborhood, you know."_

_She threw his condescension back at his face and Coulson loved that. He decided in that moment._

_"What's your name?" he asked as they were walking down the street._

_"Skye."_

_Nothing else. Coulson didn't ask for more._

_Skye laughed when they arrived at his red convertible._

_"This is your car?" she asked._

_"Yes. You don't like it?"_

_"It's amazing."_

_Coulson wasn't sure if she meant it as a compliment or a complaint. He barely knew the girl and already she managed to wrong-foot him, confuse him._

_"Howard Stark himself designed the engine," he told her, showing off again._

_"The guy that sells weapons to the government?"_

_He hadn't expected an aspiring actress would know who the details Howard Stark was, much less that she would use that tone. He knew he shouldn't judge people like this._

_"You don't approve?" he asked._

_She smiled. Maybe she hadn't decided yet._

_"Come on, I'll drive you home," he offered again._

_"It's all right, I can take care of myself."_

_Coulson took a deep breath. This might be the biggest mistake of his career but it felt so good to make it._

_"I'm sure, but SHIELD Pictures can't take risks with its new star," he said finally._

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Skye," he said and found himself liking that name more and more, seeing the possibilities. "I want you to come in for a test."_

_"You're making a picture."_

_"A very big one."_

 

+

 

She is looking at the flowers when he comes in, knocking at the half-open door.

How different she looks. Coulson has only ever seen her in formal dresses, for the party, for her job at the club, for the test at the studios. The gruelling press conference. Now she's wearing slacks and a loose men's shirt. She looks more like a person and not a dream. Still a handsome kid. He can't help but notice. Too late now. He's her director now and he doesn't do that. If he had wanted to make love to her –and he's not sure he had– he should have taken the chance that night at the club. She could only ever be his leading lady from now on.

"Hey," she calls when she notices him walk in. "Sweet place."

"Not bad," he agrees, hands in his pockets, a bit proud. "Used to be the biggest sound stage in the whole city."

They look at each other. The last few days have been hectic, with Coulson pushing the girl from one meeting to the next, not just the screen text, but the executives, the wardrobe fittings, the agents, and the first press release. Her first press release. The studio executives weren't happy with the situation, but they were happy with her face. Fury had told him the girl was a risk and Coulson had agreed but he hadn't let the director of the studios force his hand in this. Skye had bore it all like a champ. 

"Are these flowers for me?" she asks, gesturing towards the yellow roses.

"Of course."

"Coulson... Are these _from you_?"

"It's a tradition," he says, feeling strangely defensive about it. "The director must buy flowers to the leading lady. You like them?"

He wasn't sure about the color. He knows it's not the norm, yellow roses. He didn't want the usual red ones. Somehow he feels Skye is the kind of woman who would appreciate him thinking outside the box like this.

She seems genuinely pleased by them. Such a small thing. A dozen roses. She doesn't have to look so touched.

"Did you buy them yourself?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he says, this is Hollywood, "I had a studio delivery boy buy them."

"Ah."

She doesn't look disappointed but amused. Coulson kind of regrets it not having bought the flowers himself. When was the last time he did something like that? He had bought flowers for his ex-fiancee, right? He must have. Some time. God no wonder she dumped him.

"So how is it?" Skye asks. "Getting stabbed in the heart."

"Well, a lot of people around me had spent a lot of time telling me I didn't have one so... it was a surprise."

She laughs. It's a good sound and Coulson can't help thinking it will sell tickets.

"You don't seem heartless to me," she says.

He wonders if she is either too nice or too honest.

"What do I seem to you?"

She gives him a mysterious smirk. She should save it for the pictures, a smile like that, instead of wasting it on him, she's already got the part. He gets that unsettling feeling again. She has a secret.

"I haven't decided yet," she tells him. Then she looks around and back at the yellow flowers, brushing her fingers against the petals. "But I think I like your style."

He should know better but secrets or not Coulson finds himself smiling back.

 

+

 

_She hadn't accepted the part right away._

_But she did accept his offer to drive her home._


	2. People Will Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _It should be like a net,_  
>  _Stretched out for edible birds._  
>  _Everywhere there is toil and trouble_  
>  _But here we'll have fun..._  
>  _Gin and whisky,_  
>  _girls and boys..._  
>  _And the big typhoons don't come as far as here."_  
>  Bertolt Brecht, The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny

"I think your agent is drunk," Skye points out.

"That's normally the case."

Coulson is enjoying himself, in his own fashion, even though Skye is not as wide-eyed as he thought she was going to be. And he had procured a table right opposite to Clark Gable's, just to impress her.

It's one of the first Friday nights of the Hollywood year at Ciro's and probably one of the last opportunities to wind down before they start shooting. Between the Puerto Rico locations and the endless war sequences Coulson predicts there won't be much time for going out to drink and dance for his young team. He wants them to have a chance to come together and commune before the hard work starts.

_This is her first Hollywood night_ , Coulson is thinking, looking at his companion as she scans the room excitedly.

Skye looks pretty, that's a given, but the studio stylists have bought her a floor-length blue gown that makes her look more out of place than if she were still wearing her humble clothes from work. In a way it makes it obvious that she is new at this kind of events.

He thinks these nights out before a shooting are a good idea, almost a good luck ritual, but this time it's mainly for her benefit – he has invited the whole crew here, even Simmons and Fitz (he wondered idly if he had bought a new tux since the Oscars), and though they have been very amicable with Skye, trying to include them in their circle, Skye had chosen to sit next to Coulson for the duration of the show and the dinner, gravitating towards him even in conversations with others. If he is to believe the girl when she tells him she grew up without a family maybe this is because she has developed a natural tendency to look for potential protectors. It's not necessarily bad for the film – it's important for the lead actress to be able to trust her director, but Coulson doesn't want to think in terms of what is good for the film and what isn't, like Skye is just a tool of the trade. He's expected to think like that and he's done it before. And maybe it's because he was almost killed months ago and he's going soft but he believes things should be different now, he can do this the right way for once.

"Her first Hollywood club?" Blake is asking. He and Skye both nod. "Well, here's to making a lot of money together."

He raises a glass of champagne. Another one, actually. Blake is not a bad agent and he is just as bored with this town's passion for powerplays as Coulson, but sometimes he is embarrassing to have as an acquaintance. 

But Skye seems entertained and interested.

"Have you read the script?" Skye asks him.

"God no," Blake replies, a horrified expression on his face. "What would be next? Actually go to see his movies?"

Skye looks at Coulson, confused. He chuckles. Blake is already up on his feet and going to see other clients scattered around the hall, while the band attacks a slow rendering of Francis Craig's "Near You", which had already been omnipresent the whole autumn. Coulson is sick and tired of the the tune. That's the only catch – other than the subpar musicians (he'd much rather be back in Skye's dark joint, listening to Skye's little dark voice) he is in quite high spirits. He hasn't approached the beginning of a shoot with such high hopes since the war.

"And you want that man to handle my business?" Skye asks, grinning.

"It's a suggestion," Coulson tells her. "He once showed up at my door at three in the morning with a sick alligator he had received as a gift, asking if I could take care of it in my bathtub."

"Why your bathtub? Didn't he have one?"

"That's a question I never asked."

"What happened to the alligator?"

"It died."

Skye frowns.

"What is this story about? Because Mr Blake can't be bringing alligators to my place. Anyway I don't have a bathtub, there are communal showers in my floor."

We have to get you out of that flat, Coulson thinks. But he's also amused by her reaction. He notices she's not one for drinking too much. That's not bad for the studio either. She could have turned out a drunk. She could still turn out to be anything. Coulson knows so little about her.

The photographers come to interrupt their conversation and demand that piece of ownership over the upcoming star, that "public interest" lie and Coulson can't fake a smile for it.

"One with the director and his lovely star?" one of them asks.

He feels immediately uncomfortable. He watches Skye shift in her chair, too.

"What about the star and his leading man?" he offers instead, gesturing towards one of the tables with a more privileged view of the orchestra. "I think Mister Ward is dining with his family right there."

"Do you mind, Miss Skye?" the journalist asks, offering his hand to her.

She looks back at Coulson with an inquiring but lost look, in search of reassurance. He rests his hand on her back for a moment, feeling the hot skin where her dress ends, no words between them. She nods and gets up from her seat.

Coulson goes back to his drink, waiting for the camera flashes to disturb the edge of his vision.

He thinks directors should be out of the gossip pages. He leaves that for his actors. He watches the photographers around Skye and he watches Skye's strained smile. Ward does a lot better, despite his usually far-from-charming personality. But he has that easy smile, he was born into it. There's a safety net men like Ward have that people like Skye can't dream of. Coulson can't help but worry. He promised himself he wouldn't do this again – this, not exactly mentoring, that's not it, he's not Von Stenberg and Skye is not Dietrich. But he had tried introducing a young woman to this world before, just once, and it had gone catastrophically wrong, and Coulson had ruined a film and a girl's promising career in the process.

He watches Skye being led to the dance floor, hand in hand, by Ward. They look a bit stiff. Ward normally does – he's a good guy to work with and quite a coup for the studio to have him under contract but Coulson feels there's something missing, something that prevents him from being a fully-fledged A-list star just yet. Coulson hopes this role, this shoot, this leading lady, might help him get there. 

Hedda Hopper wannabes swarming around. The orchestra is mutilating a Duke Elington tune. The girl is beautiful, the boy manly and desirable. A perfect moment of perfect fakery. He should be proud.

"Handsome couple," Blake comments, following his gaze. He's come back to the table.

"That's the point," Coulson replies.

He knows part of his job is to throw Skye into Ward's arms. Anything to help sell the romance of the movie. He doesn't particularly like that part of his job. 

"You know you have to ask her to stop singing in that club of hers," Blake tells him.

"Is that really a problem?"

Coulson knows it is, he's just being difficult. The Tide is a disreputable club not only because of its mixed clientele. He knew that when he offered the job to Skye. He didn't ask if she just sang there or if she was part of the political scene. Maybe he had been a fool not to.

"This is not the time to be playing games," the other man says. Something about his voice tells Coulson he should worry more about those things.

"Why? Have you heard something?"

He's distracted, still watching Skye. She doesn't dance too well. He should book her some classes, it will be a useful skill to have in the future. 

"Have you read Ayn Rand's pamphlet?" Blake asks.

" _Don't smear the industrialists, don't smear the free enterprise system_? Yes, I've read it."

"You've been out of the game too long, Phil, between the thing with –"

"Watch it."

"And the weeks in the hospital and the absolute disaster that was _The Mystical Place_."

"Magical."

"What?" Blake looks confused at the correction.

"The title, it was _The Magical Place_."

"That's even worse."

No argument from him.

"Fury is not going to make us swear a loyalty oath," Coulson declares.

"He might not have a choice."

"Blake, you've always been an alarmist."

What he really means is that Blake is an obsessive paranoid, but at least he's an obsessive paranoid on the side of good. He's wrong on this, though: This whole absurd thing will soon blow over.

"Victoria Hand has been called to Washington," Blake says, hitting the precise tone, casual and ominous, leaning back on his chair.

"Hand?" Coulson can't believe the Committee would try to crack that one. "She's a patriot."

His companion snorts into his drink.

Coulson didn't know people were actually being called now, much less people in his circle. He didn't know Hand too well, she had started at SHIELD as a reader some years after Coulson was hired, and they had some mutal friends; they had worked together in a couple of short documentaries during the war, when they were both in Europe, they had been shot at by Nazis together. She was strict with the crew, but fair. Coulson liked her, but he also suspected the feeling was not reciprocated.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he asks Blake. Hand is slightly higher in the studio's hierarchy than he is, but still. He should have heard something.

"Fury and Hill try to keep you in your bubble. They think you are too fragile. I don't care that much about you so I can talk to you honestly."

Coulson clicks his tongue. He just wants to make a movie. Things have been getting worse since the Republican win of two years ago and since fucking Walt Disney and this MPA started poking everybody and Coulson had been too busy almost getting killed and calling off a wedding to worry about the world around him. 

"You are not making things easier for us," Blake adds, gesturing towards Skye, now off the dance floor and back to the Wards' table. "With this sudden Pygmalion move."

"I thought you were going to help me get the best contract for Skye, not admonish me for my choice."

"Did it have to be her?" Blake asks, pleadingly.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing. She seems lovely and had I not known you for twenty years I'd be congratulating you right now but... It's suspicious, everything about her seems suspicious."

"You think everyone is suspicious," he tells him. Blake gives him a blank stare. "I thought I had carte blanche to do the movie with whoever I wanted."

Blake takes Coulson's glass of champagne as well and downs what remains inside in one go.

"I get it, Fury gave you that nice sound stage of yours," he says bitterly. "But don't get too unconventional, that's not your style."

"Maybe I have a new style," Coulson says.

Blake looks appalled, almost like he's going to be sick.

"Where's May? At least she always talks sense."

"She's with the big boys at the bar. Said champagne was too weak for her," he says. It's enough that she's here, this is not her scene, too plebeian. She likes Blake, though, for reasons that have always escaped Coulson. Now Blake is looking around, as if suddenly dizzy. He really looks like he's going to be sick. "You're really drunk. Do you want me to call Claire?"

"Even if you manage to find her do you know what she'll do to me if I spoil her Friday night?"

"I don't think it's healthy for a grown man to fear his secretary so much."

Blake grabs Coulson's shoulder, a more affectionate gesture than he's known him in twenty years. He's either really drunk or things in this city are worse than even Felix The Alarmist lets on.

"I'm not the one with the problem," he tells Coulson, his face uncharacteristically serious, and he stands up and leaves.

He watches the rest of the evening slip by in a kind of daze. FitzSimmons come to talk to him about a camera Fitz has requested to HQ, trying to make sure Coulson would pull all the stops. Something about using a Eyemo newsreel camera for the war sequences. It's a good idea; he himself had worked with those cameras in '44. The problem is they can only carry film rolls of limited length, the ones Coulson knows went on for only two minutes. The young geniuses could probably come up with something. Simmons is a bit drunk, as it's often the case when they go out, he has discovered. Well, he's no one's father, she can do whatever she wants. She suddenly announces she wants to dance and drags Fitz onto the floor.

Coulson has time to thank May for coming out with them tonight before she slips away, sunglasses on in the middle of the night, far too elegant for an AD. May doesn't like this place – she says she's convinced they water down the hard liquors. Melinda May is pretty hard to please when it comes to scotch. And everything else.

Eventually they all start leaving. The Wards, moving at once like a sinister delegation of Russian princes, are next. May barely has time to actually say goodbye to Coulson, hounded by Simmons and Fitz on some budget matter or another. He has no idea what happened to Blake – he's probably found some backroom or other and will be playing cards with strangers until morning.

Coulson guesses he could consider the outing a success.

At the end of the night – and the beginning of the second and third parts of the night, when the next batch of Friday-nighters, a little less glossy, a little less rich, _a lot_ less famous, show up at the doors of the club, just as the old guard is vacating the premises and the orchestra takes a five minute break before butchering some other standard or reminding everybody that _It only happens once_ – that's when he spots Skye, alone, sitting on a stool and chatting to the barman cheerfully. She looks more in her element like that and Coulson guesses she's not used to the idea of being a glamorous client.

He starts walking towards her before he even thinks about the reporters still surrounding them, full steam ahead (for the second batch of the night, though less well-known, is usually is also more prone to scandals). He feels a bit drunk, a bit worried, the champagne and the conversation with Blake has affected him more than he thought, and he wonders if it is really wise to approach Skye like this. He does it anyway.

"I guess it's bad form for a star to drink alone," she says when he sits by her side.

"It is if it's a woman," he tells her. She arches her eyebrow. He doesn't make the rules. "So let me offer you my company."

"Fine, then let _me_ buy you a drink," she says, and the she leans into him, lowering her voice, gesturing towards the barman. "I think I won't even have to pay for it, I'm pretty sure Richard over there is sweet on me."

Coulson smiles. Oh he's sure she can get the drinks for free. 

"Your first Hollywood night out? What do you think? Did you meet Clark Gable?" he asks her.

"Actually, I did," she says. "Ward's brother is a friend. I prefer him in his movies."

"That will happen with everyone you meet," Coulson tells her.

"He has dead eyes."

"Clark Gable?"

"Ward's brother."

Coulson agrees. He's learned privately from Grant just how awful his family is, their public appearances a mere show to maintain the illusion of respectability.

"He's a big player. Distribution. That's where the real power is," he says. He doesn't say specially now that the studios are going to lose ownership of the cinema theaters thanks to the new laws. Coulson can't say he disagrees with that decision but he knows that it marks the end of Hollywood. And he knows it's people like Christian Ward the ones who will benefit, rather than the small, family-owned theaters of small towns across the real America, whatever that is. "He can get you in more pictures than I can."

"You got me into one," she says. "I'm not greedy."

There's still that flirtatious edge to her words. And Coulson is aware he is not only letting her but encouraging it. It's something they'll have to drop once the shooting starts. They can't talk like this in front of the crew.

"You didn't dance," she points out.

"What?"

"I've been watching you all night. You haven't danced."

"Directors don't dance," he lies. He used to dance.

"I bet I can get you to dance with me," Skye says. Then she notices his expression. She looks away and then down at her glass. "I'm sorry. I guess that's inappropriate."

Coulson nods, but his tone is not severe, it's almost tender: "It is."

She gives him a shy smile. When she does that she looks even younger.

"Thanks for taking me out tonight, anyway," she says. "It was a lot of fun."

"People want to see you. You're new and exciting," he says with some bitterness. Maybe he is a bit drunk. "And then they'll want to exploit you, and then –"

"Knock me off my pedestal? I don't think I have to worry about that. There's no pedestal to begin with. All those journalists? They think you are making a mistake hiring me for such a big role. They told me I'd ruin you. They think you've gone insane."

Coulson just smiles on. That sort of press about him stopped bothering him decades ago.

"You know what's the kindest thing those journalists said to me?" Skye says,

"What?"

"That I was so pretty I didn't even look like a –" she stops herself. Coulson has a pretty good idea what was said. "Well, _you know_."

"A not very polite word for not-of-this-country?" he offers.

She smirks. They share a disgusted glance about the state of the world. He should have known the scandal-mongers would be a lot less subtle than executive producers and make-up artists. Coulson has been able to shrug it off easily, but then again he's not the one being attacked.

"I should be flattered, I know, " Skye says with a disdainful snort. Disdain is not exactly the feeling Coulson is experiencing towards those columnists right now.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I shouldn't have let you alone with them."

"Coulson, I know what I'm getting into. I'm grateful but... You don't have to protect me."

"You're–"

"Studio property?" she says. Coulson swallows. "Yeah, I get it. Don't worry."

"Let me finish, will you. You have talent. That's what I have to protect. I know you can protect yourself."

She stares at him, like she is studying for cracks in his seeming sincerity. It's not seeming. She should have seen his reaction to her screen test, the couple of lines she read from the script. She is what all film directors dream of, if in a slightly strange package.

"You really think I can do this. Don't you?" she asks him.

"I do."

"Well," she says, finishing her drink. "That hasn't happened to me in a long time."

There's no trace of flirt or imposture in the admission. It's completely honest. Completely honest is not something Coulson is much acquainted with anymore.

"You brought your car?" she asks, changing the subject like she is a bit embarrassed. Coulson nods. "Wanna drive me home, protect the studio's interest?"

He thinks about it for a moment. He feels sobered up enough. He should have offered himself. He hasn't done this in a long time. He has forgotten the rules of civility in this cases, or how to walk out of a club arms locked with a pretty girl.

They are spotted by a group of gossip columnists, waiting on Sunset Blvd to see who comes and goes, unable to bribe their way into the club. They see Coulson and Skye and unfortunately he could write the headlines himself. 

They pass close enough that they catch a bit of the conversation – _of course she's sleeping with him how else_ and then the words in all their maliciousness disappear in the violet light of the night.

He watches Skye freeze. He no longers pays attention to that sort of thing and was merely walking on, but he guesses this is new for the girl. And shocking. Disgusting even.

"Do you want me to take a cab? Might be better..."

It disturbs him that Skye could be thinking about _his_ reputation and not the other way around.

"Don't be ridiculous. You have to get used to this, too. And directors have that kind of reputation."

"Do they deserve it?" she asks.

"Very much."

She smiles a bit. She can't know he's not joking at all. She can't know the stories. He wants to say SHIELD is not like that, but he knows not all of his colleagues live up to the studio's standards.

"Well, lucky me then," Skye says, her tone quite unreadable.

It might be her way of telling him she trust him not to be part of that history, not to take advantage. Like she knows he won't hurt her. He won't hurt her. He doesn't want to.

"Have you ever broken that rule?" she asks, confident that he has a rule for this. He does.

"Never."

Skye looks pensive for a moment, and all the lights of the city seem to reflect in her dark eyes for a moment.

"I guess there won't be dancing for us," she says.

No, he agrees silently.

There won't be dancing.

 

 

+

 

 

They only have two sets built so far, two sets in which she can rehearse. She's in the first one now, the entrance of the house where her character's family lives. The entrance where Ward's character makes a sudden appearance and asks permission to woo her, after having seen her in the beach that morning. The scene difers from the usual Hollywood fare because the heroine rejects the hero's advances, aware of the differences in class between the two. Skye's character starts the scene on top of the stairs, walking down as her suitor tries to talk her into a date. 

The set is impressive not because of the scale, but because of the realism. Simmons had told her she had studied thousands of pictures of houses in the area from the pre-war period. The effort shows, even if all this illusion of reality makes Skye feel a bit ridiculous, like she is somehow less real around all this.

Ward offers to teach her some of the tricks of the trade.

She's a bit confused with this sudden show of generosity, after how curt he had been with her. They had a civil enough time having a drink together and dancing the other night, that's true. His family was a bit overbearing but it was a good chance for Skye to meet one of the oldest Hollywood lineages in person. That was helpful.

Coulson has encouraged them to rehearse in private.

"Why isn't he here?" she asks, clutching the pages of the script she already memorized. "He's the director, after all."

"He's peculiar like that," Ward says. Skye can tell he doesn't necessarily approves of that. "He likes to have his actors figure things out for themselves. He doesn't want to meddle."

Funny, Skye thinks, she thought meddling was a director's job. She's learning a lot in these few days since she was offered this job.

She has no problem remembering lines, which earns her some backhanded compliment from Ward. It's when the time comes to move across the set that Skye encounters some difficulty.

"Getting to your marks in time is purely technical," Ward is saying. "Once your body gets used to it, seeing them from the corner of your eyes, you'd do it without thinking."

"Thanks. Sorry we didn't get off on the right foot."

"We see things differently, that's all. I'm not that great of a team player."

Skye laughs. "Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but cinema is the most collaborative art form there is."

"Perhaps, but if everybody is on the same page I can come in and just do my job, I don't have to worry about anyone else. If everyone does their jobs as they should."

That sounds like an accusation.

"So it's my fault again?"

"I didn't say that," Ward says with a shy smile. She might even crack him yet. "Coulson saw something special in you the minute he met you. I'm curious to see what it is."

"Are you flirting with me?"

He looks like he is about to blush. "Of course not."

"Right. Because that would be very unhelpful given that we are doing this big romantic movie together."

He pretty much blushes at that.

She takes a good look at him. She kind of understands why young girls would pay the price of a ticket to see someone like Grant Ward. The jawline alone is worth the money. He has a touch of the modern man, handsome but different to how handsome used to be. He's no Fredric March. Skye wonders if he is really as good as everybody say, she hasn't seen him in any pictures yet –he's done some fluff and some melodrama that is not really her style– but she has seen enough of him in the magazines. It's weird to meet someone like this, having seen their photographs everywhere first. But that's Hollywood for you, she guesses.

"Try again," he tells her, grabbing her arm lightly and pushing her back to the first mark.

She rolls her eyes. This is going to be a long day, she can tell.

 

 

+

 

 

Orange groves and barley fields.

That's what this place used to be. Just that. Orange groves and barley fields. And then they found oil. And they they found gold in the form of Hollywood. But that was around the time he was a kid. He feels old if he thinks in those terms – he's been here for as long as Hollywood has.

"Stuffed in those sound stages one tends to forget why movie producers move here in the first place. The weather."

He squints at the sunlight and Skye does the same. She is wearing new clothes, too, but more her style than last night's dress. Slacks like Kate Hepburn. A dark blue shirt and the neckerchief.

"Savor it," he tells her. "From tomorrow on you won't have time to sunbath."

He starts walking away from their unit and Skye follows him without a word.

They start crossing the studio lot and its avenues between stages. It's not the biggest in town, they are not the MGM, but they have a decent number of acres. Enough to lose your way if you are not careful.

"Did you know the first ever movie studio was in the site of a laundry?" he says.

"Is that true?" 

"Who knows? It's the legend."

"This is a pretty big bit of land," Skye comments as they walk past sound stages and sound stages. The 

"SHIELD wasn't always this powerful. We spent some years on Poverty Row."

"How long have you been working for the studio?" she asks.

"I was younger than you when Fury hired me," he replies.

He has never worked anywhere else. SHIELD is everything he has. Quite literally now.

He looks around; the studio is pretty deserted today. Three women in complex Edwardian clothes pass them by. Skye's face lits up with the irreality of the moment. 

"People forget the studio started out making comedies, simple stuff. After 1928 we wanted to do social pictures. Movies about the people who had lost everything. "

"Very noble," Skye comments without a hint of irony.

"We thought so."

They walk for a while in silence. Coulson had meant this interlude to motivate the girl but it's just making him nostalgic. Nostalgia is fine but he is not thirty anymore and he has a job to do.

"Here," he says, as they turn a corner.

Behind the lot there's a vast row between abandoned stages, where the remnants of sets from past productions come to die or wait to be reused – or sold for their wood. Every studio has one of these, a graveyard of sorts. Skye chuckles, the absurdity of walking right into the extravagant reproduction of a Victorian stairwell, resting against the hollowed out carcass of a German submarine. Beyond they find a zeppelin cut in half, the skeleton of a windmill for a failed Quixote adaptation, a lost world of adobe and cardboard

The torn down sets are imposing in their decandence. You can get lost among such ruins.

Coulson leads her through a thick stretch of plastic trees, huge, occupying the street in a way that, as they pass under its branches, an illusion of darkness, one can forget he's in L.A.

"What is this, Tarzan's jungle?" Skye asks, making her way with difficulty.

" _Five came back_ ," he says.

Once they make it out of the jungle there are painted backgrounds proped against the sides of the building. Gorgeous, completely fake sunsets. 

They come upon the model of a wheat mill. It's not an spectacular set piece, but it's important.

"That's from _Edna Gladney_ ," Coulson says. SHIELD had won an Oscar for that one. He can tell Skye has seen it.

"Did you bring me here to show off?" she asks.

"No. To try and make you feel part of SHIELD history. Something greater than you and me."

She stops and puts her hands inside her pockets. That's a defiant face if Coulson ever saw one.

She is probably trying to decide if he means it, all the idealism.

"Did Ward tell you I wasn't being obedient?"

"He's just trying to teach you the basics. May thought it would be a good idea, for both of you."

Coulson didn't agree with Ward when he told him but he knows what the young man means; there's something holding Skye back, it's been there since the beginning. Sometimes he forgets all about it, this gut feeling that she is hiding something and that this can't end well.

"I don't need a babysitter," she is saying. "In fact I don't need _three_."

She said she knew what she was getting into but Coulson wonders if that's true. " _Skye_?"

"You don't do social pictures anymore," she tells him, all of the sudden.

"What?"

"What happened to the mission statement? Those movies you wanted to to make after the crash. The movies you made during the war. I don't see them on the billboards anymore."

"We still have those projects – but we have to have money first. Nobody gives money to that kind of scripts anymore. If you are lucky you get away with a good message in a gangster film."

"But you are the almightly SHIELD."

"We haven't had a hit in two years," he tells her.

It's an excuse but she doesn't reply. Coulson feels the scar over his heart itch a bit. He's not supposed to admit he doesn't like what the studio has been doing. He didn't know he wasn't liking until a minute ago.

"Who's your favorite director?" Skye asks.

That's probably the strangest question anyone has ever asked him.

"That's a weird question to ask someone in the business."

"Why? Isn't that why you guys work here, because you love the movies?"

Coulson wants to laugh, but he doesn't want to laugh at the girl. In an ideal world... maybe that's where she comes from after all – as no one really knows where she comes from – an ideal world. That would explain a lot.

"You'd be surprised how many directors happen to despise movies," he says, trying not to sound too cynical.

"Somehow you don't strike me as one of them," she says. "So who's your favorite director?"

"Nick Fury," Coulson replies without thinking.

"Okay. What about motion pictures, not documentaries?"

"Frank Capra."

"Good answer."

"And you? Your favorite movie?"

" _Blockade_."

"Really?"

He narrows his eyes at her. Is she provoking him? Maybe she knows more about what's happening to this country, this city, than Coulson does and it's her not-so-subtle way of asking which side he's on. Except young beautiful girls about to have their big breaks in Hollywood shouldn't be worried about that sort of thing.

She shrugs. "I think cinema should stand up for what's right. Don't you?" Coulson doesn't reply. Skye smiles at his obvious discomfort. "And _The Palm Beach Story_ , that's the other one."

Coulson chuckles at the combination. "That's better."

They make their way back to their set, coming to rest outside its huge doors, sun in their faces. Coulson has done this multiple times, whenever he was taking a break from shooting, in tiredness or despair.

"What am I really doing here?" Skye asks him after a moment.

"Taking a breath."

"We haven't even started."

"All this, I know it's a bit too much for someone who hasn't done this before."

"A bit," she admits. The girl is not afraid of looking weak. Almost a deathly sin in this town, Coulson thinks. But he doesn't want it to change.

They stay like that for a moment. He closes his eyes. Lets the weather soothe his worries for a moment. When he opens them again the ladies in Edwardian garments have come back, talking between themselves and smoking a cigarette. Skye is looking at him, still waiting for more.

"It's going to be a tough shoot," he says. "I can tell by now. Who knows when you'll have a chance to come out and see the sun like this again. Not the ideal situation for a first picture, I'm sorry."

"I can keep up," she tells him.

He smiles.

 

 

+

 

 

The sweet smell of tar and honeysuckle. Following her all the way to the bus stop. It doesn't go away, no matter what part of town you live in.

Even her part of town.

Skye knows she'll have to leave the place soon. The studio is renting something for her in a more decent part of town, in West Hollywood, close to the clubs and the reporters. She'll be sad to leave. She'll miss the neighbors, the stuntmen and vaudeville comics and the three Mexican girls from across the hallway. Most people would consider Skye's house a dump, so small she'd probably be better off living in her car – if she had one. But she likes it, cluttered but warm. The RCA radio phono and the books. That's the first thing she does when she gets in, put on some music. She's in the mood for some Django and it's been a while since she'd listen to "How High The Moon" – she used to play it over and over back when she bought the record last year. She thinks she was feeling a bit lonely and blue in those days, before she got the gig at the Tide. 

Oh yeah, she remembers, she has to tell the club she's not coming back. Miles needs to find a new singer, but that was always in the cards. She's a movie star now.

She has her first scene tomorrow. The open pages of the script over her tiny dresser. Coulson told her not to worry, they'd get four lines of dialogue at most. Nothing too complicated. She looks at herself in the full-length mirror (one of her few possessions, apart from the record player and the folding screen). She doesn't look like a movie star, she doesn't think. But she's not the professional.

She is not usually home this early, but she has warbrobe fittings tomorrow first in the morning, and a camera test for said clothes. It's in her contract that she should have enough rest. She could be sued for breaching it.

More new people, more curious looks tomorrow. Everybody seems to have their own version of where she comes from. She doesn't think of herself as a mystery but maybe it's a good thing she's playing that. Blake said something to that effect, about it being good and bad. People are already suspicious of her but for other reasons, it distracts them from the right scent.

She has to admit her walk along the studio lot with Coulson today has rattled her a bit. It's not why she approached him in the first place, at Quinn's party, but now she wants to do a good job for him. Repay his faith.

She is intrigued by the way Coulson hasn't asked about her past – even though she knows it's important for contruactually reasons. The journalists said it: he has gone mad. Skye offered very little in the way of details, always expecting him to press, but the pressure never came. She talked vaguely about Chicago, the South, and the orphanage – implying a sort of mythical and benign fairlytale, rather than the humilliating and stark experience it had been under the nuns. Coulson seemed satisfied with whatever she wanted to give him, didn't think she owed him any more than that.

She takes another look at the pages for tomorrow.

"Do a good job," she mutters to herself.

All in all she decided pretty early to cross Coulson off the list.

She might be stupid and naive but she decides she won't lie to him (more than she already has), that she won't act towards him any different than if their story was true. She doesn't know why but she wants to be honest when she is around him. Something about his eyes, maybe. He's not the enemy.

She doesn't care about his posing, he is a good and kind man.

He's not who she's looking for.


	3. Open City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"You look tired," I said, cute and motherly._  
>  "Yes," he agreed. "I've got not place to go in the evenings, so I just work."  
> "I'll arrange some evenings for you."  
> F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Last Tycoon

The fake nurse's uniform itches.

They don't tell you this sort of thing about the glamorous world of Hollywood. At the end of the day Skye has a pretty visible rash on her neck, along the line of the hard collar. War wounds, Ward calls them – he came to see her in her scenes, and a war undeniably it is, even though a fake one.

She admires the technical part of it, despite the discomfort. She imagined she would.

With the lights the set gets unbearably hot, yet Coulson never takes off the jacket of his perfectly pressed suits. Or he hasn't, so far. Unlike May, who runs around in her summer shirt and slacks, enforcing her director's every order and desire. She has to admit she envies the woman's way of carrying herself and Skye is half tempted to ask her to teach her. But something about May intimidates her – her fierce defensiveness in all things concerning the film (and specially Coulson, whom she sometimes treats like a lost cause, or an ex-husband who never lived up to it, or a not very bright little brother she has to look after) spells disaster for Skye, if she ever finds out about Skye's real reason for wanting the job in the first place. So Skye remains intrigued and charmed but mostly she keeps out of May's way.

The hours have been hard, with make-up at eight in the morning, but Skye is used to hard work.

When the workday finishes Coulson drops by her dressing room. Because she has a dressing room, all of her own. Like the girls in the orphanage used to dream about, becoming the next Jean Harlow or Joan Crawford. Like the girls she shared boarding house with when she came back to California, their more defined dreams of meeting "reliable gentlemen" who could offer a connection. All leading to this. Your own dressing room in a big studio.

Coulson catches her poking at the ed mark on her neck.

"Regretting this already?" he asks, like a lover the morning after.

She shakes her head.

"It's been an interesting day," she says.

Some great stuff got done.

Coulson doesn't ever say _good job_ , she has already noticed this after only a few days working for him, but Skye can see it in his face. She was good.

"It's weird, shooting what happens to her in the war first, and then going back to do the earlier scenes with her father in the island," she comments.

"That's movies for you," he says. She also understands the practicality of leaving the trip to Puerto Rico for later.

She wanted to talk to him, actually.

"I was thinking... Are you going to change the script?" she asks. "About Sue's origins, I mean. His father is supposed to have fled Hitler's Germany but – I don't think I can pass for Jewish. And I don't really want to."

He thinks about it for a while. "Maybe. We never see the mother so it wouldn't be hard to – maybe just mention the exile, no need for details."

"I don't want to intrude–" she says. She's been known to overstep her boundaries at work. But she's also the first person to honor the union rules in this case.

"The writer's out of the picture," Coulson says. "The studio can do what it wants."

"I bet that's often the case," she replies. She doesn't mean to sound cynical.

Coulson looks around the room, his glance coming to rest, with some curiosity, on the magazine on her dresser. Oh yeah, Skye thinks, her very first magazine cover – another unattainable dream for orphans and boarding house rejects. The picture on the cover is one of the stills from the wardrobe tests; her and Ward in each other's arms, him in dashing army uniform, her in tight-fitting black dress with a dipping neckline that she knew wouldn't be used for the actual movie, just the publicity photos.

"Were you ever on the cover of a magazine?" she asks him.

"Me? Nah. I'm afraid my acting career didn't go that far. As for the rest, directors never get to be on the front pages."

She takes a good look at him, seizing him up. Oh, she doesn't know, he could have made the covers easily. He's older now but he still has that thing about him, as far as Skye is concerned – he definitely is a Friedrich March. He combs his hair too neatly, he could do with someone to mess him up, she liked him better the night she met him, with the ocean breeze on his face and his hair.

"Do you want to take me out tonight?" she asks.

Coulson makes a funny tilt of the head. "I thought we agreed there'd be no dancing."

"Not to a party, not that, charm school," she says, and he looks almost disappointed – Skye feels a pang of guilty, because he's taken to her so quickly and she is not being honest, but then she remembers it's men like Phil Coulson she wants to protect, the good ones, the real deal. And she does, feel awfully protective of him, because maybe she has taken to him quickly too. But she wants to offer something, something that is not actually a lie, even if it's just one small thing. "I once attended a charm school. Did you know that? Miss Madeleine's Charm School For Young Girls. They kicked me out after three weeks – supposedly when they discovered I had no charm to speak of."

He raises an eyebrow, almost _almost_ swallowing the hook and line there, miss. But he doesn't. 

"Where was this?"

"Poplar Bluff," she replies. She's already told him she spent years criss-crossing the country before landing right where she started. "I was fourteen."

They share a knowing nod at that.

"Where did you want to go tonight?" Coulson asks.

"To the pictures, where else?"

"There's a private theater here at the studio."

She rolls her eyes. She doesn't want a stuffy room smelling of top shot's cigars. She wants to take him out, not the other way around.

"Have you been to see _Open City_?" she asks.

He narrows his eyes. "That's a movie for New York people."

"You're a snob against the snobs," Skye says. "I like that. But I think it can help. For your movie. Our movie. I think you should see it."

He smiles.

"What time do you want me to pick you up?"

 

+

 

"Sit there if you want," she tells him. "I'm sorry I'm not ready."

_There_ Coulson guesses means her bed.

Skye is changing her clothes, not four feet from where he stands, behind the folding screen, since there's nowhere else to change.

He sits, realizing the bed is the folding type. Thin cot. A precarious young girl's world. The one-room flat is serviceable but cluttered. There's a plate with toast crust on it on tiny the bedside table. He can smell recently brewed coffee in the air. A record player seems to be the most expensive piece of furniture. The rest is charming but depressing. 

"Sorry," she says again. 

"It's fine."

Not to brag but Coulson has had plenty of experience of waiting for women in living rooms, before going out on the town. Though the waiting has always come with the offer of a drink, please help yourself to something dear, from the modern and well-stocked bar, the gin is right there. Skye hasn't offered and she doesn't have a bar, let alone modern and well-stocked and if she keeps any alcohol in the house it's probably under the kitchen-bedroom-living room sink.

He admits he feels embarrassed standing in the middle of her humble flat. It's not that Coulson lives is some sort of disgusting luxury – he does well for himself, and while he does have expensive tastes he's not extravagant with money. But compared to this small and bare room his West Hollywood house, Spanish style with the pale orange walls, with two floors and the pool, the tv set in the living room (when he bought it there were only about 600 in the whole county), the state of the art projection suite, and the nice cocktail bar, well, it seems shameful. He feels ashamed.

"You haven't packed yet?" he asks her, trying to cheer himself up with the idea that this girl will soon be out of all this poverty, thanks to SHIELD Pictures – he knows that doesn't mean she will be happy somewhere else, but at least she'll have a bathroom of her own.

" _Coulson_ ," she says behind the screen. Just that. His name. Like a whole sentence.

"What?"

"Look around you. Everything I own fits in two cardboard boxes. I'll be fine."

Perhaps he is ashamed because it makes him remember his own squalor days and he had promised himself he'd forget all about that.

He remembers moving to California as a kid, his father uprooting him and his mother from their comfortable East Coast existence to this barren land. What for, anyway. The man would be dead within a year, his young wife and kid without a way to feed themselves.

He remembers his mother getting a job at the only hotel in Hollywood, when Hollywood was not even a suburb, just a street. They lived, the two of them huddled together like rats, in a small room in the basement, next to the laundry. Machinery noise the soundtrack of their nights. He remembers taking a job at studios at fourteen, driving cars in dangerous stuns for one-reel comedies.

He remembers when everything was still a desert and you had to fight rattlesnakes and coyotes to shoot a western and god, he _is_ old.

He tries not to think about that, about being old and being here since before this city was this city, as he waits for Skye to finish up.

He takes a look at the pile of records instead; pretty much what he expected – he doesn't know this music, The Second Herd, Stan Kenton, Dexter Gordon, wait, Benny Carter is the one Coulson does know. All that stuff you'd expect to hear on Central Avenue, at the the Dunbar and that kind of place. Skye really belongs to a different world, doesn't she. The distance between them is almost staggering.

She comes out from behind the screen, again simple clothes, manly for the most part, loose and modern, and grabbing a pale raincoat that has seen better days. His suit probably costs more than a month's rent in this building. He might have come overdressed for this date – story of his life. He has to cast Skye as a flapper in some movie, a party girl with a twinkle in her eye, he decides, looking at the way she has made her hair up for tonight. He feels appalled at his own enthusiasm – he hasn't finished his first film with the girl, doesn't know if it will be a flop, and here he is dreaming of future projects together. He doesn't know if Skye would like to be in future projects with him.

He knows she wants him to take her to the movies tonight, so that's what he's going to do.

On the way out they cross paths with her neighbors, with whom Skye seems to have a friendly relationship – the publicist in him wonders if that will be a problem, because he doesn't have to guess what these girls do for money in this city, it's written on their skin and their means, but the human being in him (there's still a bit of that, he swears) shakes the idea off and starts talking to them in Spanish. Skye looks at him, visibly and joyfully impressed by his command of the language, as they walk down the stairs. This shouldn't make him so happy, he shouldn't want to impress her, but it does and he does.

"Maybe you should leave your car here," Skye tells him when they are about four blocks from the movie theater. "I don't want you worrying about your precious convertible getting stolen. I want you to focus on the film."

He agrees.

The cinema where she takes him is not like the ones he's used to. It's a real cinema, not fit for premieres, just fit for showing pictures to real people.

He looks at Skye. She is the most real person he's met in a long time. It's not just that she doesn't seem to have a past in the business, it's that everything she does, what she says, it feels so authentic. Coulson is beginning to think he might just have forgotten what real people are like, that's why she is such a shock to the system. Maybe it doesn't have to do with the girl herself. Maybe what he feels is just as fake as the movie they are trying to make together.

"I think you're a bit overdressed," Skye says as they walk into the theater, touching his jacket.

"I have the feeling I might be."

Skye lets out a soft laugh and takes his hands and guides him inside.

_Open City_ is the second half of a double programme, absurdly paired with a dreadful crime affair directed by Bernard Vorhaus – whom, Coulson has heard, might be getting into trouble with Washington soon.

They sit among the regular crowd, Italo-Americans from the neighborhood for the most part How long had it been since he last sat in a movie theatre, a real one, not in an arranged preview or a luxurious premiere? Just a picture and a regular audience. He can't remember. How long since he has sat in this peculiar darkness with a girl? Longer still. Even with Audrey they only went to his premieres or to see films she had written the score for, they never went to the movies for pleasure.

The film is a real film. Perhaps in the same sense Skye is a real person.

A shock to the system, too. Bad photography, no gloss, no daring angles. No grand orchestra. The lead actress wears no make up. 

The mutual agreement of Hollywood and those who inhabit it is that movies shouldn't look too much like real life. They shouldn't look like real life at all, if possible. Except he never bought that. That was the whole point of SHIELD Pictures, to make movies that looked like life. When did they change that, when did they settled for just surviving one more year and maybe next year they could make the picture they really wanted. That picture never seems to come. Even _I'll See You In San Juan_ just reeks of fakeness, for all its lofty ambitions. Coulson had forgotten it was possible to make other kind of films. Like this one.

This is how he remembers the real world.

People die and they never die in a beautiful or well-lit way. Specially in Europe in 1944, death was as ugly as this movie.

It's funny, because he escaped the war practically unscathed, yet that felt more real than getting stabbed in a fucking yatch party.

They leave the theatre after everyone has long gone. Coulson feels shaken, disturbed by what he has seen.

"Are you okay?" Skye asks.

He's reminded of that same question that sort of fateful night, on the beach.

"It's a hard picture to watch," he says, thinking back to the torture scene, and that ending.

"Yes..." 

She looks a bit embarrassed, like maybe she shouldn't have brought him here.

"I was in Rome in1944," he explains.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"It's okay. It's not that. I still go to parties, even after being attacked at one."

They walk in silence for what seems like a long time. Coulson feels jealous of those Italian directors – they just up and got to the streets and filmed. No cardboard sets, no iron-clad contracts.

"Why did you stop writing?" Skye asks.

"No reason. It's just easier to direct other people's stories. Less of a headache."

"I remember your pen name. Eugene Gant."

He looks at her in shock. If he didn't know better he'd say the girl was _spying_ on him. But then he remembers spies only exist in the pictures. 

"I haven't heard that in a long time. I couldn't use Phil Coulson for union reasons."

"It comes from Wolfe, right?" she asks. He nods. "You must have been a real bookworm at school."

He smiles at the idea. In the few weeks they've known each other this is the first time he's seen Skye miss the shot.

"I didn't even go to high school," he tells her. All the things he had worked so hard to forget – the beginnings, that squalor, his family. He doesn't mind Skye knowing about it. "I was already in the studio payroll in my teens."

"Technically I went to high school," she says. "But only just technically."

"The publicity office will be shocked," he teases her. 

She laughs. He shouldn't joke. He is being an incredible fool to put such faith and so much money in the hands of a woman he knows nothing about. It's the kind of thing he used to judge other directors for. And then going out with her like this – like he's... what? The kind of director he has always despised.

"I wasn't lying then, I really like those Captain America shorts," Skye says, suddenly back on that track. "Specially the ones you guys made before America entered the war, asking people to support it, denouncing aislationism."

"The writers didn't have to do anything; we just wrote down Captain Rogers' words."

"I think it's too easy to make a movie like they one we are doing now," she tells him.

"What do you mean?"

"About the war. Pretending we defeated the Nazis and that was it. The past is a safe place, don't you think?"

"But we did defeat the Nazis, Skye. I swear, I was there."

Skye chuckles.

"Did we?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow. What is she getting at? Why does she insist on having real conversations with him? Nobody does that in this town. Coulson hasn't heard an adult word in years.

"It's easy to make those pictures now, after we won the war," Skye elaborates. "But who was making them in 1936, 1938?"

Coulson knows what she means – Hollywood's most shameful moment, the agreement not to make anti-Fascist stories, just to keep their overseas markets happy. The producers of all the big studios met and decided to let it be – Fury hadn't, of course. Hollywood had made its decision but Fury had considered it _a stupid-ass decision_ (his words) and proceeded to ignore it; he took a small crew and flew to Spain to make a series of short documentaries on behalf of the Republican cause. Coulson had stayed in California and thrown fundraisers for the Spanish government, without much success. By the time war came for them Coulson was happy to actually get into battle and out of his tux.

He wonders what Skye means by digging this all up.

"It's easy to do the right thing in hindsight," she adds. 

Now he wonders if Blake tried to bend her ear with his alarmist talk – Coulson thinks this will be 1940 again, when they tried to point fingers at people like Cagney and Bogart, some months of shake up then it will fix itself.

Skye stops walking, turns to him with a smile.

"I'm sorry, I talk too much. I talk, talk, talk."

"What?"

"It's something Ward said in rehearsals," she tells him. "I was having trouble concentrating on the scene – he said it's because I talk too much, that I should stop listening to my own voice. He didn't – he wasn't being mean or anything. Maybe he's right."

That's the most stupid thing Coulson has ever heard. He hasn't known Skye for long but he can't imagine anyone wishing she'd talk less. By her tone of voice it's clear Skye doesn't intend to follow Ward's advice, either, but the words have affected her anyway. Coulson wants to tell her she could spend the whole day talking to him non-stop and he wouldn't mind.

"I don't think you talk too much," he says, simply.

She seems quite touched by it, anyway.

"Thanks, boss."

 

+

 

She has no desire to fill the covers of magazines but if it helps she will do it.

_So, who are you, really?_ is the question she hears thrown at her more often.

She read the same magazines as all the other girls, dreamed about being in Gable's arms in _Possessed_ , believed that any small-town Annie could make it big if she had the will and if she had the face. She bought the same lies, and then when she got to know the business the lies just seemed to instensify. But she could also see the underside of it all, the tenuous threads that controlled the puppets, she saw the skeletons in every closet.

And now she's part of it, part of the lies.

Ever since the picture was announced everybody wants to know everything about her, but there is nothing to know. She should know, she tried to find out.

It's 1948. The world is not precisely innocent anymore – the pictures never were, Skye sure as hell isn't – but everyone around her acts as if it were.

Next step is a glamour photoshoot on her own, not hurried publicity still for the magazines. Not something for _Swank_ or _Stars & Stripes_ either. A whole afternoon in front of the photographer. She's kind of anxious about it, and glad May is coming with her. She wonders if May is some sort of bodyguard, if that's the Assistant Director's role outside the stage.

They meet with the main publicist of SHIELD Pictures, interested in their investment, Skye guesses, and fidgety about letting her face a professional photographer, rather than a kinder studio-contracted one. The man is wearing some sport article from Vine Street, and white Oxfords, and has the extraordinarily Hollywood name of Jasper Sitwell – she wonders if it's his own.

There's an air of carelessness to everybody she meets from SHIELD that she finds staggering.

These people act like they are still in the days of Allan Dwan, a world virginal and hopeful, like the sky is not about to collapse on all their heads. Like it hasn't collapsed yet. She thinks of them (Coulson and the rest) sometimes as little innocent animals, heads buried in the sand, pretending the ground isn't shaking too. Everybody says SHIELD are the good guys and Skye has seen nothing but good intentions but perhaps their insistent ignorance is criminal. At least May seems down to earth enough.

"A girl like you must have done some modeling before," the man behind the camera says.

Skye doesn't deny it. She was with an agency, the Oates Agency, for a while. A lifetime ago, five years ago. They had her stand in high heels and pass brochures at conventions – the Humboldt County Paper Convention, the Sacramento Surgical Suppliers Convention, the San Diego Hotel-Motel Association Meeting. All for 10-12 dollars a day, and that didn't include meals or carfare. Skye eventually quit the agency after a few months. Singing didn't pay much, if at all, but at least it wasn't the Madera County Hoover Salesman of the Year. And singing usually came with a free meal and free booze.

Now SHIELD is providing her with everything – even the silk stockings she's wearing.

There is a certain apprehension in the publicist's face.

"I hope this is enough to bring people to the theater," Mr Sitwell says behind her back.

She wonders if " _this_ " refers to the photo session or Skye herself.

The apprehension and its origin, though, holds no mystery.

She might be a simple starlet but she knows well enough what's going on with her own picture. Columbia is cutting and recutting Orson Welles' _The Lady From Shangai_ and complaining about the use and abuse of its Mexican locations, the ripple effect being that Coulson's plan for four weeks in Puerto Rico is being regarded with skepticism. And hey, she is no Rita Hayworth, after all.

May seems to be having trouble standing up for Coulson's unorthodox choices against their own colleagues and Skye catches a bit of conversation between her and Mr Sitwell, along those lines, as she just finished changing at the end of the photoshoot.

One of the things Sitwell says sticks with her all day.

"Am I crazy? Am the only one who remembers Miss Amador? _Last time_ Coulson had a gut feeling we lost a million dollars."

Skye doesn't pry and she has no idea what they are talking about, the info she has on the studio said nothing about Coulson losing them a million dollars. It did say the studio's general manager, Nick Fury, is somewhat extravagant. She wonders if she'll get the chance to meet him in person, as he seems to be permanently in the East Coast and permanently battling the investors.

May doesn't say much in the drive back to the lot and Skye is tired, face flushed from the photographer's studio lights, from the pale make-up applied because her skin was too dark (too dark for what the photographer never said) and her neck hurts from trying all those sexy Betty Grable poses where she looked over her shoulder to the imaginary reader.

At the studio she is settling into a routine and she admits she likes it; maybe because there hasn't been any routine to her days before joining the SHIELD ranks. She feels like she belongs somewhere, like she is working towards a common goal. It feels a bit like the first time she played with an orchestra, the first time she attended a party meeting.

She likes going to the commisary every afternoon with Simmons and Fitz, and take her tea with them, even though she doesn't like tea. Simmons would be ranting about the new wood she found to make sets lighter and sturdier and Fitz would be sharing some anecdote about the technological wonders of the silent era – Skye feels there's a patronizing edge to the way he explains cinema things to her (she also suspects he might be hitting on her) but he's a sweet guy otherwise.

"This was when you couldn't do effects in the lab," he is explaining now. "So you had to do them on camera. Fury had to come up with a way of making the transition from the past to modern times so he picked up – listen to this, he picked up a bottle of beer with a defect on the glass and put it in front of the lens, and it looked blurry. But somebody on the set –"

"Not Coulson, evidently," Simmons adds.

"No, but someone lost the beer bottle and they couldn't do the transition back to the past."

Fitz snorts back a laugh.

"When was this?" Skye asks. She wonders if the movie is any good at all, or even if she saw it.

"Around 1927," Fitz replies. "Now I can do that sort of stuff for you in the lab, no problem, it's really easy."

She also likes doing the post-mortem after their scenes with Ward, who has taken it upon himself to guide her through the rough patches of the business. Skye finds it rather charming, if a bit uncessary – she has the feeling she is picking things quicker than Ward would like her to.

They spend a lot of time together, which is why she discovers Ward speaks six languages and got his big break doing a movie in French, actually.

"How was Paris?" she asks. She's not inmune to the allure of the Old World.

"Didn't see much of it," he replies, dry as ever, but Skye can tell he regrets that.

This afternoon, though, she's not the one needing the post-mortem.

"You're not the one who got chewed on by Coulson," he says, a bit mopey.

She feels sympathy, but only limited. Coulson was spot on about Ward today. He was throwing away his lines.

"Well, don't blame him, you weren't being too good in that scene."

Ward gives her a look like he doesn't find it very appropriate that Skye, novice as she is, might critizice his technique. She didn't mean to offend – everyone can have an off day. As a singer she's had plenty of those, nights where she couldn't hit the right note, or worse, when she could hit the right note but not the right feeling.

"Be that as it may, he's obviously playing favorites."

"What does that mean?" she asks.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Skye. That suggestion you had for him this morning. Changing a line? He obviously pays attention to you."

"He pays attention to everybody," she says, smirking to change the subject. There's an undertow to the comment she doesn't like, like Coulson only pays attention to her because she's – what? "I just have better ideas than you guys."

Ward just paces, obviously irritated with the whole thing, but trying to hide it.

"Hey, I don't blame Coulson," he tells her. "It's only natural. He discovered you so he feels responsible. And I have to give him credit, it is paying off. I don't blame you either, for a girl like you it's good to have a surrogate father in this business."

Skye frowns at the idea but decides to say nothing to that.

 

+

 

The dailies are fantastic.

It's been a while since he's associated the word _fantastic_ with his work. It's been a while since anyone has associated that word with his work, but that's a whole matter altogether.

The dailies are fantastic but they're still not what he wanted, not exactly.

He's still frustrated at the distance between the girl up there in the screen, the make-up and the soft focus close-up, and the real thing. It's not the first time this happens to him. Movies are disappointing. But after the other night...

He wants the audience to see Skye as he saw her that first night on the beach. He wants them to know the girl who would take you out to see _Open City_ in a bad part of town in a town that's supposed to have no bad parts. How could he manage to do that? To show the world the truth about her.

They are going to love her, of that he has no doubt.

Those eyes. Silent movie expressive. And she's funny. Lombard-funny. If anyone outside SHIELD sees these reels, they will try and snatch her away. 

Coulson is happy to be the only one seeing this right now.

Then May comes into the dark screening room.

He half expects her to disagree. She stays in silence a while, watching the scene where Skye sees the young soldier she shared a truck ride with at the beginning of the war scenes, now a body on a gurney, blanket over his face. Coulson thinks abot the cruelty of the script for a moment – a writer making all these horrible things happen to this young woman. It's all so sadistic, the whole thing.

"The dailies are fantastic," May agrees.

She sounds contraried about it.

"But I don't think you've come here to see me gloat," he says.

May snorts, then she pats him on the shoulder.

"Don't get comfortable," she tells him. "Skye has asked for your help with a scene she's having trouble with. She wants you to rehearse with her."

"Which scene?"

"The kiss scene," May replies, with no small amount of enjoyment at his surely panicked expression.

He looks at the screen again, now full of some strange apprehension. Skye, face smeared with dust and sweat from her fierce labor at the field hospital, mere miles from the front. Those eyes. Coulson frowns. The dailies _are_ fantastic. Maybe a bit too much.


	4. A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Ahead of me, on top Newberry store, a big neon sign flashed on and off. It was an outline map of the United States and these words kept appearing: `ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOLLYWOOD´._  
>  Horace McCoy, I Should Have Stayed Home

"I just don't get why she would kiss him," Skye repeats. "Why I would kiss him."

Coulson feels the temptation to say she would kiss him because it says so in the script, that's the reason.

But that's not enough – it shouldn't be. It wasn't for him, so he shouldn't resent his actors for asking the right questions.

They are in her dressing room, Skye sitting with the script open in front of her, Coulson standing up, leaning against the back of a chair. There are no flowers in the room. Does she have no one to send her flowers or doesn't she like them?

Skye has proved she's committed, despite her seemingly aloof attitude. She's been taking acting classes at the Studio School in the evenings, and dancing classes in the weekends. She's always early to the stage, like an eager secretary in a new job.

What she does can't be called acting yet, just raw intensity and good instincts.

"I know this sounds like I'm questioning the script," Skye comments.

He smiles at her. " _You are_ questioning the script."

"And I know that would be grounds to fire me and find some other girl who would just parrot her lines."

"If I wanted that I wouldn't have offered you this role," he tells her. "This is your job, to think outside the box."

Truth is he welcomes her input, he values it. He values her. But the dychotomy with which she does everything worries him; she seems confident in her opinions, yet like she has to justify her mere existence to those around her. It makes him wonder what kind of life, outside the extravagant anecdotes she has told him, she has lived before all this.

"I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to make a movie. I'd like for it to be a good one," she says, a bit mysteriously.

"Why do you say that?" Coulson asks, sitting by her side at her dresser.

It comes back, that feeling he's been trying to push down and down since the shooting began, that Skye is keeping something from him. That he is not seeing the whole picture here.

Skye glosses over his question.

"The rest of the story depends on this moment," she says. "The audience needs to want us to get back to each other at the end of it all. They have to believe this moment. And I was wondering... why should they?"

Maybe Skye has seen too many movies, Coulson wonders, and maybe she is too smart for those movies. She's too used to think about how the audience feels about an event. She understands how the story works. She would probably make a good writer if she tried, a good director even.

"I'm sorry but at this point of the story Ward's character is kind of a jackass," she adds.

"Your character doesn't see it that way. She sees the potential, the man he could become."

Skye turns pensive for a moment. Then she sighs.

"Where did we women learn that we should love half-formed things instead of real men?"

Coulson gives her a sympathetic smile. "In the movies, probably."

She smiles back, dropping her gaze almost shyly.

Then she glances up at Coulson again, her expression completely changed.

"Who's Amador?" she asks.

Coulson blinks, thinks he might have heard wrong.

"What?"

"Something I heard your publicist say. Miss Amador? And you losing a million dollars?"

"That's why nobody tells Sitwell anything," Coulson says.

"You don't have to tell me."

He doesn't want to drag all that up, but he decides Skye might have the right to know.

"Akela Amador. She was under contract here but had little experience. I decided to give her a role, a very important role, in a film I was making."

"And here I thought I was special," Skye jokes.

"She wasn't ready and I didn't see it," he says, and it feels good to say it out loud, after so long, after making so many excuses. "I was selfish. I pushed her too hard. She quit and I lost the studio the investment."

He says it matter-of-factly but Skye's big eyes fix on him full of compassion for some imagined sadness in his face. Or does he really look sad? He should look disappointed in himself instead.

"You're not pushing me too hard," she says.

A beat. Coulson doesn't know what to do with that.

"Why don't you think she would kiss him?" he asks Skye.

"What?"

"Your character? Why do you think she doesn't want to kiss him?"

Coulson could think of many reasons himself why she shouldn't kiss Ward, Ward's character, reasons external to the story – mainly the fact they'll have to fight the censor's office for it, unless the censor somehow manages to overlook Skye's heritage. Fury's independence from the mainstream makes it possible for them to fight it, and sometimes break it, the almighty code.

"It's not that she doesn't want to kiss him..." Skye starts. "It's that I'm having trouble coming up with a reason why she would _want to_."

He understands her doubts. It's not the greatest love story ever written. The dialogue of this part of the movie, when the characters are young and inexpert, is certainly unrealistic. The guy is indeed kind of a tool. But Coulson can sell this. He's used to directing romances – it's kind of his thing. Romance, melodrama, star-crossed lovers falling into each other's arms. The press calls that sort of stories, maliciously, women's pictures. Coulson doesn't mind, he likes them. They're the kind of movies he would go see, if he still went to the movies (recent night out with Skye nonwithstanding).

"There are many reasons why she would want to kiss him."

"He's handsome," Skye says, sounding cynical.

"Well, yes. We all like to kiss handsome people," he says. "And she hasn't been exposed to many handsome guys in her life."

"She's innocent," Skye adds, eyes lit up, catching on to somethig important. "It's a bit like in _The Tempest_. She and her lunatic father and their private existence in that island, she's isolated. Yes, Coulson, I read books too."

But he's not surprised by that.

"She might be innocent but she is decided, that's what the audience likes in her," he tells her, that all-encompassing quality press releases tend to chacterize as _fiery_ , the one that puts Skye among the likes of Rosalind Russell. "He's the one who doesn't know what he wants."

You don't do this in Hollywood. You don't talk about characters like this. About their motivations, the kind of people they are. This is not the New York stage. Coulson might be accused of intellectual for having this conversation; Skye would surely be accussed of _unwomanly_ if anyone heard her talk like this.

"The thing is – she's always been alone," he goes on nonetheless, having fun."All that time in that big house. Her father depressed, mourning her mother. Her only moments of escape her songs. She feels like she can't affect the world. That's how Ward's character feels. Trapped by family convention. By a life he didn't choose. And he tells you that you two are a lot alike and then –"

"I don't feel that alone," she finishes. "Okay, I can work with that."

"And he's going away to war," Coulson reminds her.

"Very dramatic."

"No, but when you two met he wasn't. He wasn't going to join up. _You_ changed his mind. You made him realize he had a duty. A man has decided to go to war for you. You affected the world."

"That's why I let him kiss me."

They smile at each other. She's getting excited over the scene, and Coulson too. He remembers, the rush of collaboration.

"Does that help?"

"I guess..." she says, uncertain about something, closing the script.

"Something else?"

"Yes... can you stand up for a moment?" 

He does. Skye does too, and she walking up to him, comes close, hesitant, examining his stance.

"Is he going to grab me and pull me against him or am I going to –?"

"That's the kind of thing you should talk through with Ward," he tells her.

"Yeah but what would _you_ do? You're the director, after all."

He thinks about it. He shouldn't mix what he would ask an actor to do with what he would do. But Skye is asking. What he would do. If he were that guy. But he's not. He's not a young dashing young man, a rich young man. Nobody would buy that story, that someone like Skye could fall...

"What's my cue?" he asks her.

Skye looks very seriously into his eyes and Coulson can see the moment she changes, she becomes another person. It's all raw intensity and instinct, it's not acting yet, but the technique is catching up fast.

"I'm a nobody," she tells him.

It's been more than a decade since he stopped acting but Coulson is still good at remembering lines.

"Don't you see?" he recites. "It's all the same. You're too much of a nobody, I'm too much of a somebody. We're –"

"The same," she finishes, turning her back to him, the usual Hollywood gesture that always prompts the leading man to place a comforting hand on the trembling girl's shoulder.

Coulson follows that script too. It's strange, doing the scene here inside her dressing room. But it's not less fake for it. Except: Coulson touches her shoulder and it's Skye's shoulder, not her character's. He feels the sharp bones of it. The thin fabric of her shirt, so unlike the wardrobe chosen for the actual scene. They are not in Puerto Rico saying farewell.

She turns around again.

"Do you really think we'll see each other again?" Skye asks, pleadingly.

He imagines what it would feel like, saying goodbye to a girl like this, if this girl were his.

"Will you wait for me?" he asks, softer than a leading man should.

Skye's face full of emotion, nodding like she's swallowing back tears, looking at him like he deserves her love.

"All my life," she replies.

And it's trite Hollywood dialogue, you've heard it a hundred times, but Coulson believes it. For a moment he does.

He knows Skye didn't mean that they should do the _whole_ scene and yet when the moment comes for the hero to kiss the leading lady Coulson surprises himself by actually closing those last few inches between them and touching his mouth against hers. He doesn't mean to kiss Skye, ever, he just gets caught up in the moment. He used to be an actor. He used to kiss in front of the camera. 

But there are no cameras here, yet he is wrapping his hands around Skye's waist tightly, pulling her against his chest. He slides his tongue into her mouth and there's no way to put that sort of thing on a screen so why is he doing this, he wonders. To help her, to help the movie. How long has it been since he kissed someone? His last kiss was a goodbye kiss. Now Skye is kissing him back. Is she caught up in the moment too or does she think he'll fire her if she doesn't comply? That is why he has rules, very strict rules. He should have stopped flirting with her weeks ago. Skye's hands move across his chest, palms gingerly pressed against his body. Coulson can feel her fingertips dart over his heart, can feel it in his scar.

His mouth stops touching hers.

Then the scene ends, it ends for them, and Skye is looking at him a bit surprised.

Coulson disentangles her from his arms, politely, gently.

Skye laughs a soft laugh.

"That's how it's supposed to go," he says.

She nods.

"Nice demostration," she comments, a bit playfully, though she doesn't seem to be against it.

"I thought a demostration was in order," he says, a bit defensively, instead of admitting the moment overtook him.

"Now let's just hope Ward kisses as well as you do," she says. "Relax, I'm just teasing you."

Coulson blinks, trying to come back to his senses.

He's her director, he holds infinite power over her – over Skye more than over most actresses he has worked with and didn't kiss like this – and even though she doesn't look disturbed by what just happened, just a bit embarrassed, Coulson is.

"You're a good director," she says. He raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "Look, I don't know if what happened with Amador was your fault, if the disaster of _The Magical Place_ was too, I don't know. But right now, today, you're a good director."

"I just hope this helped," he says, lamely.

"So. Much," Skye says. Charming, helpful, compassionate. He's not sure which.

He walks out of her dressing room before he has time to figure it out.

 

+

 

For a fake Hollywood kiss, for a fake _rehearsal_ Hollywood kiss, that was a believable one.

Does that come from his years as an actor? Though it wasn't exactly the kind of kiss you see in the movies, his tongue pushing against hers, like a real kiss. Real passion. It's hard to tell anymore – people learn to kiss from the big screen, Skye certainly did so. But Coulson just jumping in and kissing her like that... that was surprising. And it threatens to make her job – her other job – a lot more difficult. She just got caught up in it all, talking about the script, Coulson taking in her input like it had some actual worth, working together on a problem. She knows he didn't mean anything by it – he has his rules, there will be no dancing, and Skye respects him for it, feels safe around him – but it made her wonder a bit, because Coulson must have loved someone once, must have kissed someone for real, someone very different to Skye, surely, but someone.

Even minutes after Coulson has left her dressing room Skye still feels – affected. 

There's a knock on her half-open door and the next moment Ward is leaning against the frame, posing like a model. Talking about things that are making her job more difficult...

"They pushed our call till four," he tells her. "We should get something to eat with FitzSimmons meanwhile."

"Yes, but don't get something too smelly," Skye teases. "Be considerate of the girl you're about to kiss."

Ward chuckles. Skye is really fond of pushing him like this.

"So? Are you feeling better about the scene?" he asks. She told him she was having trouble finding an angle. It's obvious he is trying not to take it personally and Skye appreciates the effort.

She nods. "Coulson explained everything. I'm all right now. Ready to get back on it."

She wonders if when the moment comes Ward will grab her waist like Coulson did. If he can kiss her like a drowning man. She wonders if there'll be passion.

But when she and Ward kiss there will be a whole crew watching them, and the hot studio lights on them, and the make-up people ready to touch them up – her lips, his hair – between takes. They won't be alone like she and Coulson were.

"You're nervous," Ward notices. She narrows her eyes at him, he's pretty good at reading her already and Skye realizes how much time they've spent together since the shooting started. She worries he notices she's a bit flustered, too.

"It's my first Hollywood kiss," she explains and it feels kind of like a lie, in a way.

She doesn't know much about Hollywood kisses, she realizes. She read in a magazine that after each take the stars are given a hankerchief to wipe their mouths. She didn't wipe her mouth after Coulson kissed her.

"Hey," Ward calls out, because she was distracted, and his voice is sweeter than usual, but confident. "Don't worry. I'll be with you every step of the way."

Skye nods at him, grateful for the support.

 

+

 

Perhaps he shouldn't have left so quickly and he consciously forces himself to slow down and not to make it seem like he is in a hurry walking away from Skye's dressing room, like something has happened, like he has done something wrong.

He has done something wrong, hasn't he.

"Here he comes," a voice behind him says as he walks across the sound stage. He turns around. "What's the matter? You look rattled."

"Triplett," Coulson calls and the younger man grins at him.

Antoine Triplett is the kind of guy you want to work with, in this city – and Coulson laments this is only the second time he has worked with the man. Her grandfather built this city, almost literally, he was one of those who had been there from the beginning, there when the first film by a studio was shot in 1911. Even though her mother wanted nothing to do with the business and sensibly married a doctor, Trip grew up in the studio's backlots, worshipping the old stars and being treated simultaneously like family and like royalty. The Gish sisters came to his birthday party every year, a real Hollywood prince.

Coulson is happy to have him for a supporting role in this, and at least have him around. Trip has the looks of a leading man but no one would think of giving him a lead, and the production code mostly kept him from playing romantic roles (it's the second time today Coulson thinks about that particularly disgusting prohibition in the Hays code). Since Trip refused to play the kind of roles usually reserved for black men – he refuses to be the butler in Shirley Temple's movies – his options are always limited. Even in this picture SHIELD has had to fight with the East Coast investors to cast Trip as the brave army best friend of the protagonist. But Coulson is glad to at least have scored this man and his grin for a few weeks.

"It's been a while, sir."

"Don't call me sir," Coulson says. "That's what you say to an old person."

Trip laughs. He shakes Coulson's hand.

"I'm really glad you recovered," Trip says. "How's that going anyway?"

"You haven't heard? We dropped the charges."

Trip frowns. "How come?"

"Black sheep of the family or not, no jury in the country is ever going to convict the heir apparent to Asgard Industries," Coulson says. No jury is ever going to convict his attacker specially now that the older Odinson brother, a good kid who offered to testify on behalf of Coulson and other injuried parties, is out of the picture, and has run away to Europe to live in sin with a bohemian artist or so they say. "And they have four newspapers, they would bury SHIELD in gossip before the trial even started."

"So he gets away with trying to murder you."

Trip shakes his head slightly. He's SHIELD to his backbone and has grown up with that studio loyalty, the yatch incident has disturbed him as much as anyone in the company. It was humilliating, mostly, Coulson thinks.

"He wasn't trying to murder me. Come on, Trip, I'm not that important. I just happened to be in the way between him and the person he was actually trying to stab."

"Tough," Trip says. 

Coulson looks at what he is wearing, the perfectly fitted Army uniform. Gala, too.

"I see you've done your wardrobe test already," he comments.

Trip grins. "Come on, man, you know I look good."

He does look good.

"Do I have to lock up my art director?" Coulson asks.

As a rule he is against romances between his employees while they are shooting a film, but this is Hollywood, you can't enforce that rule, and that might a good thing too, as long as no one gets distracted and no one gets hurt. Simmons doesn't look like the kind to get distracted and Trip is definitely not the kind to hurt anyone. The complaint is made, mostly, jokingly.

Around them the lightning technicians start moving their equipment for the afternoon. Trip looks at the set, a very charming replica of a quiet corner of a beach, lovingly replicated from the location scout's photographs. They will flood it in fake moonlight in a few hours, because you can't have a proper kiss without moonlight, can you. Coulson wonders how it will look like, and perhaps he should have spoken to Ward first, remembering Skye's question, the one that set all that mess in motion, the one about Ward grabbing her or not, and how would Coulson do it.

"Ir must be nice for you to be back around all this," Trip says. "After..."

"Yes," Coulson replies, quickly. Directors are like sharks, if they don't make one movie after the other they die. And it's been too many months, he admits. He should be dead.

"Interesting scene you're preparing?" Trip asks.

"In a way," Coulson replies, trying not to think about kissing Skye anymore, about the breach of trust between them, but he is still affected by what just happened in her dressing room, hoping it doesn't show in his voice. "Stick around today, you might see something surprising."

"Yeah?"

"You haven't met our new leading lady yet," he says, and he might be preemptively gloating.

"Not yet," the other man says. "Heard a lot about her at HQ, though."

Coulson raises an eyebrow, like challenging Trip to say more. Trip doesn't take the bait.

"You're still casting, right?" he asks instead.

"The girl's father," Coulson replies. "We can't seem to find him."

 

+

 

A light meal at the anonymous 24 hours drugstore.

It's been a while.

All the old-timers and past-midnight habituals, finally familiar faces, seem to be here.

Miles, too, when he spots her – Is it a coincidence? Was he hoping to run into her in this place he knows her to find comfort in during hard times? Is this new Hollywood double life turning her into a paranoid? – and brings his sandwich and his milkshake with him.

"You keep really long hours," he says, sitting by her side.

Skye smiles. It's good to see him, after these weeks of silence. It's good to see anyone from the old life, the real life, after these cardboard set weeks and all the new people, the not-really-lies lies and the confusion.

"Don't remind me, I have to be in make-up in six hours," she says. She should have gone home directly from the set. She just wanted a reminder real people existed out there. But meeting Miles is probably not the greatest idea. "I should leave."

"In a hurry to get back to your grand new flat?" Miles asks. "Does your whole neighborhood really smell of hibiscus?"

Skye rolls her eyes at him.

"Sorry, sorry," Miles says, dropping his gaze. 

"It's not wise," she explains. "I shouldn't be seen with you."

She doubts it, though, that anyone can find her here, so far from the glitter and glimmer of West Hollywood.

"You could come by the club and sing a song or two. The audience misses you," Miles says. "I miss you."

"I know. But I can't risk it. I'm supposed to stay away from bad influences," she tells him. "It says so in my contract, actually."

He grins at her. Sometimes she forgets why they ever broke up. Then she remembers the stunt he pulled a couple of years ago and she almost forgets that she stopped hating him at some point.

"You shouldn't have approached me, is what I meant," she tells him.

"Too late now."

He smiles that charming smile of his that yes, might have worked on her in another time. Now it just makes her feel tired and weirdly old.

"Is that your car out there?" he asks.

"Second-hand," Skye replies, on the defense. "I need it for work. I can't get to the studio on the trolley."

"You've gone and changed on me," he teases her.

"Miles."

He leans back in his seat, getting less familiar.

"And how are things at Culver City?" he asks. "Are you making any progress?"

"Just some snooping around," Skye shrugs. "The people working on my movie–"

" _Your_ movie?"

She tilts her head at him.

"The people I'm working with – they're good guys, I can't imagine any of them..."

"You know what they say about appearances," he tells her.

"Yes," Skye hardens her voice, her expression. "And I got a pretty sharp reminder of that truth myself."

He looks away. Skye squeezes his hand for a moment. They've put all that behind them.

"It has to be someone else," Skye goes on. "But I've got a pretty good start. I'm going to parties, making connections. The studio doors are open for me, files and reports there for the plucking. And well, those doors that aren't open..."

She makes a gesture with her hand. It's still a needle in a haystack and mostly a hunch, but Skye is good at both those things.

"Things are getting heated up East. I don't know if your boss knows anything..." Miles says _boss_ with a dinstinctive vindictiveness in his voice. For some reason he didn't particularly like Coulson when he showed up in the club to see Skye sing that one night. "One of his buddies, Victoria Hand, it seems like she will have to do some time for contempt of the Committee."

She believes him, even if the veredict is not in yet. Miles still has that kind of contacts.

"Things are progressing pretty fast," Skye comments, appalled. Injustice is swift.

She looks down at her lemon chiffon pie, suddenly losing all appetite. Which really stings because she had been looking forward to this all night – this place doesn't have much going for it but Skye has always liked the desserts. She pushes the plate away, disgusted. Disgusted at the world, but that's not new. Ten people have already been sentenced to jail time this year. Maybe she is just trying to put a band-aid to a stab wound on the throat. Maybe she just wants someone to be held responsible. 

Skye sighs into her cold coffee, all energy drained out of her.

She is more tired than she realized. It's not just the late hour, it's the emotional investment of the day. They ended up shooting the whole kissing scene three times, with some extra pick ups for the close up. They had to put her on a step for those, as she suspected, because Ward is so tall. Skye likes kissing tall guys, it makes her feel like Barbara Stanwyck in _Ball of Fire_ , piling volumes of an encyclopedia one on top of the other so she could climb the mountain that was Gary Cooper. Ward didn't grab her waist like Coulson did. He kissed well, Hollywood-well and well-well, Ward's was a good face to be pressed to, if she was being unprofessional. Skye has been very unprofessional _all day_ , she knows that.

"You look distracted tonight," Miles says. "Something happened at work?"

She touches her thumb to her lips, remembering the confusing day's procedures. She looks at Miles; no, she is not about to tell her ex-boyfriend that she kissed a couple of guys today, even if it was in the interest of art (or she thinks it was).

"Nothing happened," she says, a bit harshly. "Just... I've been working hard, that's all."

 

+

 

When he comes out the air tastes of sand and fire, even this early in the year. It hasn't rained for weeks. 

Out of the stage it's not that much better than inside. Coulson is barely aware, for a moment, of what time it is. The sky is completely dark, no purple or pink or mauve. There's an eerie silence in the lot. He stayed behind with Fitz, setting the camera angles and marks for the next day, and somehow lost track of time. He even wonders if he should stay in the studio, use the comfortable couch in his office, instead of going home. But he leaves that for later in the shooting, when they are really pressed for time. He should get some proper rest while he can.

And because they finished quite late – even for SHIELD standards – Coulson is not expecting to see anyone in the parking lot at this hour. He finally looks at his watch, it's two in the morning.

As he walks towards his car – because this person is leaning against Coulson's car – he begins to realize who it is, not just because of the signature dress, but because of the profile, there's only one woman in L.A. who looks like that.

Whatever she is doing here at this hour her presence heralds nothing good, specially her presence against his passenger door.

" _Raina_ ," he says, not pausing as he shoves his briefcase into the back seat, "what an honor."

"Mr Coulson,"she replies, lips curled all pleasant and deadly. "I have counted the hours."

"Can't say the same. An mysterious honor, nonetheless. Don't you have bigger fish to fry?"

Raina is about the most loathsome person in the whole city, and that's Coulson's both professional _and personal_ opinion. A second-rate Hedda Hopper or Louella (and those two are bad enough), a scandal-monger who thrives on the misery of everyone around her, a tragedy broker. She made a killing out of the details of Coulson's stabbing, and that wouldn't have been so bad if the details had been correct. But Raina doesn't really care about truth, just readership numbers, or the numbers on the advance check her various employers give her.

"I heard you were working for Disney these days," he comments. "I always knew you'd do well among fascists."

"You say the nicest things," she says, smirking her soulless smirk against him rather than at him. "But no, I was let go, I'm self-employed again."

Coulson considers her. Is she really human? Even in a city where people trade human despair as currency Raina is particularly remorseless. He tries to count the men and women whose lives have been ruined by her tongue but he loses the count soon. Truth be told he is a bit scared of her himself. But he knows he must do anything not to show it.

"I don't have time for you," he tells Raina, opening the door to his car. "I'm trying to make a movie."

"What I have to say concerns your movie," she replies. "And I know how important your movies are to you. After all they're all you have. Now that you don't have a family, or even a... fiance."

He gives her a disbelieving look. Raina exploited his break-up with Audrey for all it was worth, inventing all kinds of wild reasons for the separation, including how Coulson hadn't been wounded in the chest but somewhere else that made his position as a future husband precarious – he and Audrey would have laughed hard at that one, for sure, if they hadn't been so busy packing Audrey's things out of his house.

"I'm calling the studio police now, Raina."

"But then you'll never see what I have in this envelope."

"I'm not interested," he says, opening the door to his car, convinced it's only more lies. Raina had tricked him in the past.

"But it concerns Skye..."

He stops in his tracks, kicking himself mentally for not showing a better poker face.

"That girl is not who you think she is," Raina adds.

This time Coulson manages a blank stare.

"What do you want?"

"To help you. You're a good man, Mr Coulson, and that makes it easy for someone like her to take advantage. I would never forgive myself if I let you be taken for ride. Not when I could do something about it."

And truthfully he wouldn't think twice about telling Raina to go to hell (probably that's her home address, anyway) if it weren't for the fact that he knows, deep down, that Skye is not who he thinks she is, not entirely. He hates it, the way he lets Raina prey on his curiosity. He should know better.

Raina opens the envelope while he stares her down in impatience. As he expected she takes out a handful of phographs. It's her specialty – Raina started her reign of terror as a private detective for the studios, digging up scandals in rival companies or gathering incriminating proof for her own employer, to have the upper hand in contract negotiations. She's just as useful in making proof of wayward behavior among the stars disappear, like a magician.

Her latest trick: first a picture of man, the same man Coulson saw in the Tide the night he went to see Skye sing. So maybe Raina is not shooting blanks this time.

"You recognize him?" she asks.

"He's a pianist."

"He's Miles Lydon, the infamous union rep," she says though she didn't have to, Coulson has heard the name, everyone has heard the name. He was famously a thorn in the side of the studios then disappeared some time ago, fallen from grace. Something about accepting a bribe from the producers to break a strike. "An infamous Communist, too. He and your lovely little starlet applied for a marriage license two years ago, did you know that? – a false name for the bride of course, one of her many aliases."

"Many aliases?" he repeats, caught off guard.

The rest of the photographs are shots of Skye attending different meetings and parties in private houses. Coulson doesn't have to guess what kind of _meetings_ these are if Raina considers the photos blackmail material. In one of them Skye seems to be the one making the speeches and Coulson winces at the implication.

Raina stares, cocking her head to one side and smiling almost benevolently.

"Why would someone like her suddenly want a career in Hollywood?" she comments. "And I read all about the way she met you at Quinn's party. It sounds so magical, such a beautiful _coincidence_."

Coulson blinks at her.

"It would be so sad to see you face a committee in Washington just because you _picked the wrong girl_ ," she goes on. "If I were you I would drop her from the movie. It's not too late."

"Is that a threat?"

Raina gives him a pout. "Would I threaten you?"

"In a heartbeat," he replies.

She smirks, looking pleased at that assessment of her personality.

"We're all in the same boat, Mr Coulson," she tells him. "It's called Hollywood. We all want to protect Hollywood from undesireable influences like this girl. It's okay, you can keep the pictures, I have the originals."

Coulson gets in his car and looks at Raina one last time before driving away.

"If we were in the same boat..." he says to her. "I would let it sink."


	5. Hold Back The Dawn

"Stop lying to me," he says.

Skye swallows and looks away and he would feel guilty if he didn't know it's probably a ruse. Like everything else.

He looks around him. Her new flat feels just as bare as her previous home. The studio gave it to her furnished, new and shiny and spacious, modern. The neighborhood is quiet. It's Sunday, Coulson has struggled all day about what to do with Raina's information. All day deciding whether to confront Skye directly like this.

He scans the room and then looks at her again.

So it had all been a lie, after all. She had worked him and he had fallen for it, like the fool he is. She's good, that he has to say for her.

He sat on that information for a day, and it hasn't helped to make things clearer.

Her big eyes, as she looks up at him from the couch, Coulson towering over her, in this very moment are probably a lie too. It doesn't matter that she looks like he is about to make her cry.

"I didn't want–"

"You're still lying," Coulson says, softly, sadly.

He would like to sink into that couch, suddenly so tired, so old, but she is sitting there, he can't possibly sit with her. He looks around again. Distracted by the idea that it's the first time he has been to her new place. It looks nice. Not too lush. Skye hasn't decorated it too much, like she expects her time in it to be transitory. Well, he guesses she won't here for much longer now.

He has made Skye give up everything she has on him, on SHIELD, and she produced a thick folder, the work of her months in the studio. She's a good little detective, isn't she? Perhaps she and Raina would get on well. He showed her the photographs, and he encountered not the shame he was expecting on her face, but some kind of defiance, like she was challenging Coulson to find fault with the images. He found a lot of fault with her findings, though – the way she had used her position on the crew, her freedom to roam the studio, to collect information on the company.

"I'm not trying to hurt the studio," she says. Funny. Those photographs alone could _ruin_ the studio. "I need to find a person. Someone who _is_ trying."

He can barely listen to her fantastical story.

Is she really this callous? Is it delusion? Desperation? She didn't even look that surprised at getting caught.

"I wanted to tell you," she says. "I was going to – I told myself..."

Delusion or desperation.

Spouting some nonsense about the FBI targeting SHIELD, putting a mole in the company to find proof of its leftist sympathies. A nice spy movie she's trying to sell him.

Coulson is mentally preparing himself for the _I-told-you-so_ s that are coming, from May, from Blake, even from Fury himself. But mainly from May. They all warned him not to trust Skye. Why was he so arrogant, to think he knew better than his friends? Why was he so conceited to think that this kind of Hollywood fairytale could happen to him? Of course Skye has always seemed too good to be true, and now he knows why.

"You played me? You played – all of us?"

Skye nods softly. "Yes, I did."

They had asked her if there was something in her past that might jeopardize the the movie and she had stood in that room with Coulson and the studio's lawyers and she had lied, lied, lied. He had been by her side, a couple of days after coming to find her in that bar, and she had lied.

Why are you really here? Coulson thinks.

"Who are you working for? A magazine? Another studio? I hope they pay well," he tells her. Whatever they pay it can't be as much as what SHIELD would have payed her for the movie. Maybe she has been promised a contract. She doesn't look like an idiot.

"No," she replies, gritting her teeth, adamant. "I've told you. I–"

"You don't want to hurt me, hurt SHIELD, yes, I've already heard that."

She draws a long breath. Her cheeks are flushed. At least she has the decency of feeling shame. She doesn't make much of a picture now. But for a moment she looks younger, almost a kid. Coulson is about to press her again but he hesitates.

"A year ago I was contacted by a friend in set construction, Mike Peterson," Skye starts. "A couple of FBI agents were threatening him and his family, they wanted him to name names."

"When you say friend you mean... fellow traveller?" Coulson asks.

"A comrade, yes."

"What does he have to do with this?"

He's impatient, wounded, he doesn't want to believe a word she's saying. He's not sure why he keeps listening to this fairytale.

"They gave him a list of names and asked him to confirm they were Communist sympathizers. Mike said nothing, of course. But he noticed that all the names were of people he had worked with when he was in SHIELD. Mike wasn't under contract but he had worked a couple of times for you guys."

"And? He thought the FBI was targeting SHIELD?" He's curious to see if Skye manages a coherent story.

"And he was right. I have some experience with that, dealing with that sort of problem – moles, people posing just so they could come to a meeting. You develop a sixth sense. The Party used to open its doors to everybody but now we have to be really careful." She snorts: "That woman Raina? Those photographs? Clearly we are not careful enough."

If what Skye says has some passing truth – and Coulson is not saying he believes her – she might have been targeted before all this business of the new movie started. If SHIELD is vulnerable maybe those keeping tabs on Skye saw the way to kill two birds with one stone. If Coulson _were_ to believe her.

"I'm not trying to convince you I'm a good samaritan. If SHIELD goes we all go. There would only be John Waynes left in town. No one wants that."

"And you being in the studio is a surefire way of putting us in the spot."

"You are right," she tells him, conciliatory. Fearful? Coulson didn't mean to do that. "But the people trying to lock everybody who disagrees up? They are not nice people, they don't use nice methods. You don't know what they're capable of."

"I guess this is the part where you tell me that you've done this because you fear for your life."

Skye gives him a sad look; he has always had this petty streak in him, but he rarely lets it come up to the surface. He himself doesn't quite understand the nature of his profound hurt here. This is Hollywood, people have lied to him before. People have turned on him. Why has Skye wounded him like this? Why does he feel betrayed by his oldest friend instead of a random girl he met at a party four months ago?

"Mike Peterson, other members I knew, they got run out of town by these people," she goes on. "They might never work in the business again. I wanted... I wanted to know who was doing this to my friends. I wanted to stop them. Someone has to."

"Very noble of you."

She stares him down.

"You have no reason to believe me, I get it. I felt I couldn't tell you guys who I was, what I was doing. Not yet. I wasn't lying when I said I liked the studio's pictures. I don't want it to disappear. If it does, the bad guys would have won. And I wasn't lying when I told you–"

"Don't," Coulson interrupts. He couldn't stand a moving plea about how genuine she was with him. The world makes more sense this way, it makes sense that she was lying. At least that mystery is solved, why she was the way she was with him.

"Coulson, you can think I'm horrid, but I'm not wrong about this," she says, her voice soft but decided. "You've got a wolf in the herd."

He decides he will sit on the couch after all. He drops on the other end of it and Skye lifts her head in surprise. She tries to make herself look smaller, press herself against the arm of the couch. Coulson could really use a drink right now.

"Why me?" he asks, not looking at her. "Why did you approach me that night at Quinn's house?"

"Because you looked –"

"Like an easy target? Like a sucker?"

" _Nice_. You looked nice. A good person."

He would want to believe that but he can't. Not anymore.

He sighs, his hand over his face. Anger is draining all the energy out of him.

"Please, Coulson, I know I don't deserve that you believe me but you have to be careful. The FBI – they don't like how SHIELD refuses to take a loyalty oath, at the Waldorf Conference Mr Fury said he wouldn't blacklist anyone. Washington wants you guys gone, for good."

"I know all this," Coulson argues. "More alarmist talk. They don't have the power–"

"They do," she says, shifting on her seat to get close to him. She has been sounding less and less fearful, she has been sounding decided and Coulson, Coulson wonders if he is wrong about all this, the studio's position, Fury's strength. Skye seems to be treating him like a naive kid now. And he had come here to – to do what exactly? Not this. Not lose his ground like this. Skye slides along the couch further, gets closer, her voice softer. "Victoria Hand is going to serve time," she tells him. "They'll call her partner next, and Hartley is working on our movie. How long it'll be before they call you, claim they have some proof they are not even going to show you?"

"You mean how long before they call _you_?"

This time he is not able to intimidate her with his derision. "Am I scared? Of course I'm scared, I'm terrified. But if I wanted to stay safe I wouldn't have accepted a work in Hollywood."

"You mean, you _looked for_ a job in Hollywood."

He can't see past his hurt pride, not right now. That night on the beach, right up to where the waves touched their feet. How could he have been so stupid?

Skye looks away, hurt as well, but then she turns towards him, a different new expression.

"Eric Koenig killed himself last month, did you know that?" Skye says, a new energy in her voice, and suddenly Coulson feels like he is the one being accused of something. But she also looks like she is about to cry again. She doesn't. "He hung himself. He got a subpoena and he wasn't sure he'd be strong enough not to name names, or strong enough for jail. The FBI harassed him for months, and they got proof from someone in SHIELD."

Coulson knew the name if not the man. An independent contractor, a middleman who had done business with SHIELD in more than one occassion. He was reliable and honest. And yes, a known Communist, which Coulson guesses it's the reason why he hadn't heard of him in a while. He was sad to read about his death.

"The press said he died of natural causes. They didn't say anything about a subpoena. Why should I believe you?"

"You have absolutely no reason," she says. "Except that happened to you too. What did the press say about the son of the mightly Odin of Asgard Industries stabbing you? Did they print the truth?"

Coulson looks away.

"I'm sorry," Skye says. "I didn't mean to mention all that."

"You know everything about me. I'm still at a disadvantage."

There's no flirting about it this time. To think he has been such an idiot to ever flirt with her in the first time.

He hears her swallow.

"I know I can't ask for any favors here but...Could you wait a couple of days before telling everyone about me? A lot of people won't like what I've been doing. I have some experience. A couple of days is all I'm asking. Just to give me a head start. In case the not-so-nice-people come knocking."

Is she trying to inspire sympathy in him? But she does look scared, and trying to hide it. It could be a trick. But Coulson knows acting. Skye's not that good yet.

He feels too exhausted to keep up the act.

"I'm not going to tell anyone you're a member," he assures her. Even after all this, if there's a chance her fears are true, he can't bear the idea of throwing her to the lions. Even after what she's done Coulson feels a strange impulse to protect her. "Or why you can't do the movie anymore."

She nods.

"I'll tell them..." he goes on. "I'll tell them I pushed you too hard. That it was too much, I made a mistake. Everyone will believe me."

Skye glances at him with a curious look on her face.

"For what is worth, I was completely right that night on the beach," she tells him. 

Coulson snorts.

He stands up to leave. He swears his body weights twice what it did when he arrived.

Skye walks him to her door.

"Do you know what the proposed McCarran Internal Security Act is? The Subversive Activities Control Board? Do you know the government is reconditioning the internment camps? Where they kept the American Japanese during the war?" She speaks with a soft, resigned voice. "For aliens and saboteurs. They are making concentration camps for _radicals_. Doesn't that scare you?"

It does, he thinks, and wants to believe it's a lie, or an exaggeration, or paranoia, as sharp as Blake's paranoia. But he looks at Skye and she might be a liar, a conman, a player, but he knows she's not an alarmist. She believes what she is saying.

He lingers a moment unde the doorframe, knowing this is the last time he'll ever see Skye. Not knowing what to believe anymore.

 

+

 

Skye closes the door of her room and sits on the bed, trying not to sob.

At least she didn't cry in front of him.

She always knew this could happen, it was always in the cards.

She has been preparing herself.

She shouldn't feel so bad right now.

But she hurt Coulson, she hurt a man she believes should never be hurt.

She pulls herself together and starts packing.

 

+

 

He fixes himself a drink _first_.

He's normally well-stocked, in case May wants to come by for a chat. But the good stuff he hasn't touched in months. Tonight he takes out the good stuff.

The drive from Skye's flat he barely remembers.

He walks into his beamed studio, pushes the button that lifts the fake wall to reveal the movie screen behind. He always thought directors should have screening rooms in their houses but the truth is he never actually uses it, never has the time to watch movies. Isn't that sad? Sadder still, the fact that the last movie he saw was with Skye.

He takes out the old film reels he hasn't watched in years.

He is still good at this, prepping the film for projection, his fingers still retain that muscle memory. Back in the poverty years he used to do everything for the studios, including projectionist work from time to time, and taking films on the road and screening them from the back of a truck. It's a distant memory, all that, but his hands seem to know the way home.

He has kept them in perfect condition, all these cans of film. He has the originals, the screen tests, Captain America smiling shyly before the director says _roll_. He was just a kid. He was supposed to be a kid. Virginal and fresh and unknown. Fury's nationwide search for a face for his informative shorts about the war in Europe. The face of a hero. But he was the real deal, Rogers was. He didn't lie to Skye (he _didn't lie_ ), Rogers basically wrote his own dialogues – much to the dismay of the writers back in L.A.

So few people knows the true story behind the man with the plan.

Coulson only met him once, at a rally in Manhattan, selling bonds, nervous in that ridiculous suit but enjoying being able to help. He was Fury's boy, working out of their New York studios. Coulson never minded that his scripts went out and what came out on the screen were barely his words at all. Soon everything changed. That kid from Brooklyn was everywhere; from comic books to lunchboxes. America had entered war and he was Captain America.

Rogers was a star. But he just wanted what he had always wanted: to join up and serve.

But Captain America died on Italian soil, saving the lives of hundrends – at least trying to. That's a bad movie ending, that's a bad story. No one would option that script.

Sometimes he wonders if Fury feels guilty for what happened to Rogers. But that's the kind of thing he'd never ask, the kind of conversation, for all he and Fury had known each other for over thirty years, they will never have. He knows what Fury would say – that rarely a choice presents itself as the only possible choice one can in good conscience make, and we should cherish those moments. Okay, Fury would never use the word cherish, but something to that effect, like Edward G. Robinson saying something out of Capra. 

Coulson pours himself another glass.

He knows he shouldn't drink. He'll need all his wits about him tomorrow. They had a big day planned, a big long shot of the battlefield, one of Coulson's favorite scenes. But now he'll have to spend the day doing damage control and making excuses, lying. Sending everybody home. Their enthusiasm for this project, their hard work, he has ruined it all.

He looks up; Steve Rogers and his Howling Commandos running through cardboard woods in pursuit of the enemy. The set is not great, they didn't have much money for these films and they had to make them very quickly. It was the message that was important, not the production values.

In a way, it's not really Skye's fault.

Skye has lied to him, manipulated him. But her objective comes from a good place, it's noble, idealistic, if he is to believe her (and god help him, he is already believing her, she was always going to believe her). She might be misled, naive, reckless, but she hasn't been malicious. She hurt him, but that wasn't her intention. He understands that.

He used to do good things, didn't he. Once upon a time. He liked fighting for the good cause. He remembers him and Fury driving James Cagney to a Hollywood Scottsboro Committee meeting back in 1936, one day of terrible wind, right after Cagney's wife had forbidden him to attend the reunion, warning him that the left was going to ruin his career, all of their careers. He had felt good that day. He used to like being in the right side of history. 

Now he's just trying to make a movie.

"Good causes rarely have good timing," Steve Rogers says and he might be drunk but Coulson thinks he is speaking to him. That's just sneaky. It's just unfair.

He looks a bit disappointed up there in the screen, a bit judgemental, but maybe that was just Rogers. They shot this one in 1940, he remembers Fury sending the material back to L.A. with excitement, part of a series to get people to support the war. Yes, Rogers always had that face. 

Skye had the look of someone who is on the right side of history tonight.

Coulson raises his glass to the screen.

"Cheers, Cap."

Captain Rogers died years ago but on the screen he's still alive. What a machine of death a camera is.

"The world will always want you to change, it never wants to change," Captain Rogers continues. The reel skips a bit, a part of his rousing speech – only a filmed rehearsal here – missing. "... the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences. Doesn't matter if the whole world decides that something wrong is something right. Your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth and tell the whole world – _No. YOU move_."

Who the hell wrote that?

Unbearably corny and naive.

Shit.

Unbearably true.

Shit shit shit.

Coulson stands up from his chair, starts looking for his coat.

Steve Rogers, even after dead, is still right, of course.

 

+

 

"I'm not drunk," he says.

"I didn't say you were," Skye replies.

She's not sure she has ever seen him without a tie, though. He's just wearing his raincoat over his shirt. Not as shocking as the fact that he is here, standing at his door. It's well past midnight. 

"I thought you were going..." she says, but stops herself.

Coulson looks at the suitcases half-open on the living room.

"Have you come to make sure I'm not stealing any studio property? Because I'm going to return the ninety dollar white chiffon dress, I swear," she says, trying to sound humorous to hide the hurt.

He focuses his gaze on her and yes, she can tell he was drinking at some point of the evening, she hopes he took a cab here. He looks a bit rough. Skye hates the idea that it's her fault.

"Do you think I would come here to make sure you are not stealing anything?" Coulson asks, sounding a bit hurt.

She shakes her head softly.

"Can I come in?" 

This time she nods.

He didn't ask to be invited in last time.

"Okay," Coulson says to himself, like talking himself into walking into her flat.

This is the second time he's been here today yet somehow it feels like the first.

"You want to sit?" she asks, and then realizes one of her bags is on the couch. She hurries to put it on the floor. She smiles up at him awkwardly and gestures for him to sit.

It's a strange reversal to earlier that night, with him on the couch and her having to look down on him. They stand like that for a bit, Skye letting him speak first. But he doesn't. And Skye realizes speaking might not be an immediate option for Coulson.

She'd like to sit with him and comfort him, she feels that urge, then she remembers she's the one who put him here in the first place.

"I'm so sorry," she says, wondering if she has apologized. Maybe she has. It feels like she hasn't. "I know you think I tricked you but... I want you to know that everything I've told you, about believing in you, and liking your movies, and what was between us..."

Skye doesn't know why it's so important to her, that he knows, that he understands that wasn't an act, their connection. She wasn't playing him. She guesses he'll never believe her, not completely, and nothing could be the same, from this moment on. That idea sort of breaks her heart.

"When did this start?" Coulson asks. "It was with Mr Peterson?"

The tone surprises Skye. He's actually asking.

"Yeah. When he asked for my help," she says. "He wanted to know who had ratted him out to the FBI."

"Okay," Coulson says, starting to take off his coat. "Tell me everything."

And she does.

She tells him everything.

At least everything she knows.

The files go back to 1940, to the Dies Committee, a map of horrible political decisions in California spread before them.

They talk until the morning without realizing.

Skye can tell he's still skeptic about the whole thing, and she doesn't blame him, but Coulson is smart, and when shown the proof he comes to the same conclusions Skye did.

"Now this bit," he says at some point, sleeves rolled up, pointing at one of the folders. "This is just paranoia. Disney is not recruiting Knights of the White Camelia."

"There are known supporters in the Committee," she argues. "Look at the lists."

Coulson smiles at her (she didn't think he would ever again). She concedes the point for now. Okay, she will not take on the Klan and the FBI at the same time.

But he still has a lot of questions, a lot of doubts.

"Why you? Why did Mr Peterson think you could help?" he asks. They have finally moved to the floor, sitting cross-legged among the evidence.

She had been a different person then, recovering from – so many things. She was starting to sing again, and Mike, one of her oldest Party friends, but whom she hadn't seen in ages, managed to track her down and show up at her doorstep.

"I have some experience with that too," she tells Coulson.

"Experience?"

"I told you I didn't know who my parents are," she says, in case he thinks that was a lie too. He nods, understanding he's not. "I tried to find out. For years and years. No luck there, in the end, but I became pretty skilled in... I'm not saying I'm Pinkerton level, but I know how to find things out."

"Evidently," he says. 

Skye stares at him apologetically. Coulson looks like he maybe regrets the jab a bit.

There's the facts. Painfully extricated from comparing payslips. Photographs of shady government cars following Hollywood people – agents and lawyers mostly, a good way of keeping tabs on people.

"How come no one noticed all this before?" Coulson asks, once the big picture comes into focus for him.

"No one was looking for it."

And Coulson, who seems like he would care about these things or Skye thinks he would, had been away from the world for over a year. And Fury has been fighting the big battles in Hollywood –trying to stop SHIELD's biggest star, Natasha Romanoff, from getting deported back to Russia– to notice that the little skirmishes back home are not coincidential. 

"Nick Fury is _a national hero_ , Washington is risking a lot of bad publicity," Coulson says.

"That's why they have to do it this way," she tells him. "They can't come out and just accuse him. Irrefutable proof. And the only way of doing that is with an inside man."

"Who will eventually become a friendly witness..." Coulson mutters. "Fury will never fire anyone for being suspected or subpoenaed. He can be ruthless sometimes but... He will never do it."

And that will be the end of SHIELD, eventually.

Someone who willfully and with full knowledge employs enemies of the state – the future is pretty grim for someone like that. And that was the plan.

Hollywood had been looking for an en excuse to kick Fury out of town for ages. No one has ever forgiven that he was the one to first negotiate with the Screen Writers Guild in 1941 and accept their request of a minimum wage of one-hundred-and-twenty a week for its writers. The rest of the studios have been waiting seven years to get back at him. They consider him a traitor.

"When did you start looking into SHIELD?" Coulson asks her.

"I couldn't go on Mike's words alone, it could have just been a coincidence, those names he was shown. But then I spent a month following a couple of FBI agents around town. That's when I started to make the connections."

"And they didn't realize you were following them?"

"Never."

He runs his fingers through his hair, looking appalled and amused.

"At least now I feel safer knowing the security of the nation is in the hands of men who won't notice when a pretty girl is following them for a month."

He says it so casually Skye believes he hasn't realized he just called her pretty, and finds it funny for some reason. But it's weird to feel like they are on the same team again.

She grins and he catches her.

Even though Skye knows she's right in doing this, in investigating this, there is one thing she really, really regrets.

"I'm sorry I ruined your movie, I hope you know that. I know how much it means to you," she tells him. "But you can still make it, even if Raina has those pictures of me, you can find another actress–" 

"Or maybe we can still clear your name – explain this was a mistake," he says, hopefully. "That you are not a..."

She smiles at him. He still doesn't get it. Sweet, foolish man.

"Coulson, there wasn't any mistake, I'm a Communist, I've been a Communist since I was sixteen. Actually faked my papers to get in," she says. She can see the trouble in his eyes when she says the word, when she repeats the word. "Though technically you could say I'm a Trotskyst," she amends. "But I doubt the Committee will care about semantics."

"Skye..." he calls. His voice is really tender and he gives her a sad smile. "I don't think they're going to let me make a movie with a communist as the protagonist. I don't think I can pull that one off."

"I know."

She drops her gaze. She really liked the movie, really liked working in it. She is proud of the job she was doing.

"So," Coulson says. "I guess we'll have to be careful."

Skye lifts her head.

She doesn't understand what he's saying.

"Does that mean I can stay?" she asks, half hopeful, half terrified that's not what he meant. In pure disbelief of the man.

"If you're going to do this," he tells her. "If you are going to find the person who's been feeding information to the FBI, you're going to need help. Maybe I can–"

Something about her exression must have cut him off. Skye tries to bite back some untimely tears. She's been doing this alone for so long. The idea that someone might want to help her like this...

"We're going to need some support," Coulson says.

"We can't tell the crew."

"No," he agrees. "We'd be putting them at risk as well."

Coulson becomes suddenly aware of the hour and squints at the light filtering through the window.

He massages his temple.

"Hangover?"

"I'm not used to it."

"I'll make some coffee," Skye says, standing up.

She walks into the kitchen and takes a moment for herself. It's been such a long day, such a long night. She didn't realize how tired she had felt all these months, unable to share this with anyone – Miles did her some favors (he owed her) and knew the story, but it's different, getting someone else's opinion on it. Just to know she is not completely crazy. And Coulson – he seems to think she's not crazy and also that what she is doing is important, despite what she has done to him in the process.

She looks out of the window. It's still dark, but getting lighter and fast, a pale light beginning to fill her street. She appreciates her new coffeemaker but she sort of misses making coffee in the pan, like in her old flat. Part of her knows she'll never be at home somewhere like this place, given to her, not chosen. She's never hapy with things she hasn't chosen, she's beginning to think it's a character flaw.

When she turns around to get the cups Coulson is there at the kitchen door. She jumps a bit.

"You startled me," she tells him, gesturing towards the table.

"Sorry."

She looks at him and she feels like years have passed since last night. Exhaustion is catching up with her, after months of lies it's a relief to just let go, but it has left her feeling empty.

"Did you know Koenig well?" he asks her.

"Not well but I knew him. He was a smart man. We liked each other."

Coulson nods. She is somehow touched that he asked about it.

"We're going to need support," he repeats. 

"May?"

He nods again.

She would have preferred to keep this between themselves, but she guesses she owes Coulson to trust his judgement.

"Let me..." he says, walking to her to help with the coffee.

She turns around and he's very close, their bodies almost touching, Coulson wrapping his hand around the cup she offers her. Suddenly she remembers a few days ago he kissed her. It wasn't a real kiss, but it's strange to think about it right now.

"Thank you," she says. She means for everything, for deciding not to send her away, for listening to her all night.

God, she feels like hugging him. But she guesses he wouldn't like that.

He takes a seat on the table, lost in thought for a while, that sharp mind of his already at work. Ally, Skye thinks, some part of her still expecting this whole night to be some sort of cruel dream and he is about to disappear and she'll be alone and packing up again. The white dress in the cupboard and her on the run.

It's weird watching Coulson sipping coffee, Skye thinks. Champagne, sure, they've been to a couple of parties together. But he never eats with the crew when on the sound stage. He orders his food and locks himself up in his office. Now he's sitting here, in her kitchen, putting too much sugar in his cup. Hours ago Skye thought she would never see the man again.

"Why didn't you get married?" Coulson asks, out of the blue. It's a rather uncharacteristically personal question from him. After all the lies she's told perhaps he feels like he deserves it. Perhaps he does deserve it. "Raina mentioned that you and Mr Lydon were engaged."

"We weren't, really," she tells him. "He applied for the license without telling me, it was going to be a suprise. The big surprise, though, was that he had accepted two thousand dollars from Harry Warner to break a screenwriter's strike from the inside. When I found out I told him to hit the road."

Coulson nods. "I only mention it because I don't know if it's something she intends to use against you."

So he wasn't prying.

"I'm already a member of the party," Skye comments. "I don't think having been almost married to one makes much difference."

She does wonder why Raina told that to Coulson. What is she planning to do with it.

"I guess you're right."

He looks defeated.

Under other circusmtances Skye would tease him, tell him they both have that in common, broken engagements.

"Where is Mr Peterson now?" Coulson asks.

"In Mexico City. With his son and sister."

"Are they all right?"

Skye nods. "Some of our friends have ended up there. There's a little group of exiles from Hollywood. Not much work, he's thinking about moving to Europe."

Last letter he sent her he was talking about Paris, about the small community of Hollywood rejects there, the ones who had seen this all coming and fled danger.

Silence falls again.

The world (or West Hollywood, which is the same) begins to stir awake. In a handful of hours they'll have to be back at the studio. Skye wonders how she will face the rest of the crew, now that Coulson knows. She wonders if she'll act any different towards him when they are among the others. She wonders if the people who do her make-up are going to tell her off for not sleeping – thankfully she only has scenes in the afternoon, and thankfully her character needs to look wrecked for them. A little black under the eyes might even help her case.

She looks up from her coffee and at Coulson. 

"So... now what?"

 

+

 

"And you believe her?" May asks.

Coulson is not sure he would be here telling everything to May if he didn't believe Skye.

And there would be something wrong with May if she wasn't suspicious.

He looks around.

"What are you looking for?" she asks.

He feels a bit silly for even thinking about this but...

"Skye told me they might have wired some offices," Coulson says.

May lifts one eyebrow. " _They_? The FBI? Or is it the Winsconsin senator himself?"

This is what he needs after last night. Some good old-fashioned Melinda May skepticism.

"Why are you smiling?" she asks.

He looks down at the script open on his desk – he promised Skye they'd spend a couple of hours going through it this morning, and other things too, he imagines – and contemplates the long day ahead of him. Technically challenging. But a key shot for the film he is trying to make. He should be concentrating on that, not on the possibility of J Edgar Hoover bugging his office.

"Tell me honestly," he ask May. "Am I in trouble?"

She crosses her arms. "I have a very broad definition of trouble."

That is true. It's not an answer to his question, though.

"If the Committee called today... would they have something on me?"

May rolls her eyes, like he's missing something very obvious.

"Phil, you have done at least _ten_ things in the last twenty years that could land you in jail for being too Sovietic."

Coulson frowns. "First of all, I don't think people should end up in jail for being _too Sovietic_."

" _Eleven_ now."

He smiles.

He feels better now. Physically. He came straight from Skye's, took one of the suits he keeps in his office and shaved and he doesn't exactly feel like a new man, there's the edge of having been up all night, but better? _Better_ is something he can work with.

"Okay, like what?" he asks May. "What, exactly, have I done?"

"The Hollywood Anti-Nazi Legion."

"Are you kidding? You have to be kidding."

"It's considered an illegal group now," May shrugs.

She is taking the news that the studio they both have worked for their whole adults lives might be dismantled by fascists with admirable calm, even for May. Then again, she doesn't look that surprised.

"You knew there was a storm coming," he realizes.

"Fury knew."

"So you knew."

"You have a tendency to get into trouble," May argues.

"I'm not the one is trouble," Coulson argues, even though his life the last year and a half contradicts that notion. "Fury is."

"You have a tendency to get into trouble you can't get out of."

Coulson arches one eyebrow at her. "That's cute."

They look at each other and smile.

Coulson nods, taking in the gravity of the situation.

"That's why this film? _It has_ to succeed," she tells him.

May gets this look in her face that means that yes, she personally won't let this movie fail. It's both comforing and unnerving.

"And Skye, if she is going to stay –"

"She's going to stay," Coulson cuts her.

"She has to decide why she is here," May says. "And so should you."

"She is a good actress. The movie is better with her."

"I agree with you on that," she says, but he knew that; it's no secret to those on the crew, those who know May, that she is rather taken with Skye's performance so far. "But is it worth the risk?"

"I'm the director, that's for me to decide."

He doesn't mean to be forceful and he regrets sounding like May is a stranger, like she is anyone else. But he also knows it's better this way, if he has absolute responsibility, in case everything goes wrong.

And he knows May has stood by his side through many stupid decisions, and this might turn to be the stupidest one yet. He is acting like a fool. He's well aware of that. You can say that's his one saving grace – that he knows how ridiculous he is being. He should just cut ties and play it safe. He can't explain to May about Captain America talking to him from his own movie screen. He can't explain the look on Skye's eyes when she said someone had to stop these people.

May sighs, and in their own private languages that means she is agreeing to go to hell with him.

"This is why Fury asked me to keep an eye on you," she tells him, humor reaching her voice.

Coulson has no doubt those were Fury's words.

"He asked you?"

May shrugs. "I volunteered."

That's more like it.

Everyone keeping an eye on him since his "accident". It hasn't really helped. He keeps thinkings it could still be a lie, the way Skye asked him if he was okay, back on that beach. A lot of things could still be a lie and he'll never know for sure.

May touches his arm encouragingly. She never touches him so Coulson looks down at her hand and guesses he is in a dire situation indeed.

"You used to put the good of the studio before everything else," she says.

"I know. And then someone stabbed me in the heart. And now I wonder..."

"What?"

This is not the safe play, but he has decided already. They decided together, he and Skye, this very morning.

"You're right, May. This movie _has_ to succeed. It has to be big. And it has to be with her," he explains. "Because if there's one thing I know is that no jury is going to put a famous actress in jail."

 

+

 

Lying to the crew is not pleasant, but Skye discovers she can do it, just like before. 

Spending time with FitzSimmons, teasing Ward, she finds it alarmingly easy and wonders what is wrong with her. 

May looks at her differently today, more suspicious if that's possible. Skye decides the wisest thing is to keep out of the way. She wonders if she is disappointed in her. For some reason the idea of disappointing Melinda May doesn't sit well with her, and that's why she avoids her, too.

Coulson seems to have a lot on his mind, and after spending the morning in his office talking about the movie and not talking about everything else (as he left her house this morning she asked him not to talk about the investigation while on the set, as a precaution, but she can tell he thought she was nuts), Skye is glad he does. After what has happened during the weekend she finds it hard to focus on the task at hand; the fact that they are set to shoot a long, complicated scene today helps her, actually. She is going to have to need it today, all the hard work and all the talent she can muster.

The huge open air backlot transformed into a battlefield, the wounded stretched as far as the eye can see both in 1944 France and 1948 Los Angeles. The ground is meant to be wet earth but under the decorator's efforts Skye can feel the hard Culver City asphalt under her knees. Coulson enamoured of the natural afternoon light coming from behind the studio even though they aren't shooting in color.

Skye looks down and there's fake blood on her hands. She feels like asking Fitz, now measuring the light her fingers reflect, how he decides what color blood should be, for a black and white movie. It's the kind of thing she never thought about when watching movies, just now that she has red paint all over her body.

"We've met five minutes ago and I'm already half-naked with my life in your hands," Trip says, smiling up at her.

It's true, it's the first time she and Trip share a scene, a day of work even; they had barely said hellos when they were called to set.

The same fake blood smeared across his bare shoulder and chest and he and Skye chuckle a bit at the absurdity of the situation. 

Simmons comes with more props, the bandages Skye has to keep pressing against Trip's arm, the gaping wound – that's pretty realistic make-up, she thinks, a bit grossed out by it. Simmons makes an effort to keep her eyes low, turned from Trip while he smirks at her shyness. Skye is grateful for the distraction this provides, once she catches up with what is happening.

"You nervous?" Trip asks her when they are alone again, more or less alone among a sea of extras pretending to be dying or half-dead soldiers.

Skye looks around. Fitz is yelling at people to move out of his way – that's not a good sign. He has rehearsed the shot without actors all day, a slow camera drop, a reverse shot of the famous _Gone With The Wind_ moment. That's what Fitz said to explain the visuals to her: "Like _Gone With The Wind_. Except – not appalling, of course." and he snorted. Coulson had explained it in terms of wanting to go from the big to the small, from war as a concept to the wounded as an individual person. Skye liked that idea. It was simple but she liked it. She never liked that _Gone With The Wind_ shot anyway. Problem is, in one of the rehearsals the camera fell off its platform and crashed against the floor. The damage wasn't relevant but the camera crashed against the same spot where she and Trip are standing right now. She didn't know Hollywood movies could be a physically dangerous business.

"It's a big shot," Skye says. "I've reason to be nervous." Then she arches one flirting eyebrow at her colleague. "After all, as you said, I've only just met you. I don't even know if we're going to make a good team."

Trip grins: "Oh we are going to make a good team."

She chuckles with him and Fitz screams for them not to lose their positions. It's not just the camera angle; it's a long scene, Skye thinking that if she messes up her lines they'll have to start again with the whole thing.

"We're losing the light. _We're losing the light_ ," Fitz keeps saying.

They get it in the first take.

"Good job," Coulson tells both her and Trip, breaking his usual silence.

Trip looks impressed. "This feels different to the last time I worked here."

"Yeah?"

"Told you we were going to make a good team," he adds.

Skye is a bit sad it's over, the exciting shot, but they didn't lose the light and she didn't mess up her lines. She's happy to be out of the fake nurses uniform and to be able to wash the fake blood off her hands and face. Yesterday she was convinced she would never work on this film again, would never set foot on a movie studio again. And now look at her.

"Did something happen, this weekend?" Ward asks her.

"This weekend? No. Why?"

"You seem different," he comments, after the day is done.

He offered to buy her a coffee on the shop across the lot. Skye felt like just going home, if she was honest, but she accepted anyway.

Skye stares at him, worries that she might have let something slip, that he's onto her.

"Do I?"

"You been holed up in Coulson's office all morning."

"That was just your usual director-actress stuff," Skye says.

Ward looks pensive. It wasn't a lie; she and Coulson were discussing the script all morning. If Ward doesn't get to spend that much time talking with the director about his character is only because Ward doesn't ask that many questions. He is happiest following orders, she's noticed that about him. No wonder sometimes they don't understand each other, Skye has never been like that. Skye has spent a long time, even her off days, watching her fellow actros and actresses work. She thinks Ward has it in him to be a much better player than what she's seen, but that obedience is holding him back. 

"Well, I don't know what he told you but... You look like you're going to go to war."

"Movies _are_ war," she says.

Ward gets this look on his face, the one Skye can read by now, the one he gets every time she says something he disapproves of but he doesn't say anything because he really likes her.

But she is not being funny now.

And Ward was right to catch it.

Yes, Skye thinks, I am ready for war.


	6. The Big Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well – this is true! So many of us yearning for this "break" – which will make the sadness of our lives fade, we think – like shadows on a wall when the sun comes out.  
> And we will think then _Now the sadness of my life is forgotten. Now – there will be a new life._  
>  Joyce Carol Oates, "Black Dhalia & White Rose".
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: mentions of child abuse.

People dancing.

People _dancing_.

The massive space of the 1920s hotel, in that very LA style that is forever envious of New York buildings, all at her feet, in a way.

Towers of champagne. She had never seen towers of champagne glasses before, only in the movies, where they normally come to a comical destiny. She thought this was going to be a more private affair, something for the company investors, for studio insiders, maybe a couple of journalists.

Not a party.

Not a party as big and intimidating as this.

Skye looks at them; dancing, laughing, impossibly glamorous in all the ways mere actors can't be – and impossibly powerful.

She's been in the bars and restaurants. She's got used to that scene and it no longer intimidates her. She's been introduced to Clark Gable. But these are bankers, investors, these are the real deal. Some have come all the way from New York. Because of Skye. She has never had that kind of attention before. If they decide they don't like how she looks on screen or how she sounds or how she acts they can pull the picture, halfway there, they can ruin the production, ruin Coulson even.

The place is huge. They tell her it's the biggest private hall in the city, complete with projection room so they can all watch a taste of the unfinished movie, so they can all watch _her_ , their investment, their property, and decide if she is worthy.

She's vaguely aware of raining outside, a hissing against the windows, importunate Californian spring storm. She's glad it started after she arrived, it would have ruined her dress. Look at her, caring about a dress, doing what she always mocked movie stars for doing. But it's not that – she doesn't really care about the dress. She cares about the plan.

They have a week off shooting before they fly down to Puerto Rico. The whole crew is here, minus the location people, and minus Trip, who declined the invitation saying he didn't like investors' parties meaning the investors didn't like him there, Skye didn't miss the implication. Even though Trip's family had built this city from the ground. Nobody would tell her, the star of the film, that she is not welcome in her own party. Nobody would tell May either, powerful player, even though looking uncomfortable and stiff among these men who look uncomfortable and stiff around her. These were not mainly other directors and writers and friends, they were not impressed by May's legend or softened by decades of acquaintance. Most people in this room could eat Skye alive, if they decided so.

There were rumors even Mr Fury was going to attend the party.

But Skye hasn't seen him.

Miss Maria Hill is here, though. She was imposing in her wordless introduction to Skye. Coulson smiled amused at the exchange, implying this behavior was not unusual for his boss and that Skye should not take the woman's aloofness personally.

It's hard, Skye thinks, not taking things personally in this town.

She scurries to one side of the huge room, by one of the imposing marble columns (is it real marble? How to know what is real in a place like this?), watching at the rest of the guest from the priviledged position.

Strange, unfrienly faces.

And who is the spy in the crowd?

Well, she _is_ , but that's not what she means.

More and more she has become convinced, through her investigation, that the FBI's informant (if there's even only one) is someone of a relative status in the company. Not a crewman or some bit player. Maybe someone even famous.

Coulson walks up to her. He tries to stare at what she is staring –nowhere and everywhere, seizing up the room without letting any of the players know they are being watched, she does that well, watching without being noticed– and keeps quiet by her side for a long while. Skye can't tell if he is amused or infected by her paranoia. 

"You know," Coulson says, "when Orson Welles first arrived at Hollywood he threw a big party in his new house. But Hollywood people resented his arrival so much that no one came to his party."

Skye doubts there's any moral to the story other than to distract her.

"I wish I was in Orson Welles' party right now," she says.

Coulson looks at her from the corner of her eye.

"Stop worrying," he tells her.

He says that but he seems to be scanning the room with the same kind of apprehension as Skye, so she gives him a look of disbelief. She has also noticed he has been nursing but not touching his glass of champagne. She wonders if he is anxious about the screening, too, or the other thing. She's anxious about both.

"It feels like every person in Hollywood is here," she says.

"That's why they call it the Hub," Coulson replies.

She looks up. The ceilings are too high. It a strange way they make her feel claustrophobic, trapped. Monumental decor from the era where people could afford to be monumental.

It's not that the kind of life she leads hasn't made her paranoid at other times. It's not like this is the first time she imagines everyone wishpering "Commie" under their breaths when they look at her.

Like usual she tries some levity instead.

"Hey, at least I'm glad I didn't return this dress. It looks good, right?"

Coulson gives her a non-committal smile as always she says something of the sort. That hasn't changed, his slight and slightly pleased discomfort whenever she flirts with him, which is reassuring. He hasn't really changed since she told him her secret. He doesn't act mistrustful or withdrawn. He's still strangely in synch with her.

 

The music stops and the guests start moving towards the adjacent room.

"It's time for the screening," Miss Hill informs them, walking by.

Skye draws a long breath.

"Come on," Coulson tells her, touching her arm for a second.

"If this doesn't work," she says, gesturing towards the private theater, knowing this is Coulson's plan. "If _I_ don't work, I will get you in a lot of trouble."

"That doesn't matter," he says. "And this is going to work."

"But what if it doesn't?"

"You know your value," Coulson says.

Skye nods.

"Then stop worrying."

He says that but as soon as the lights are down and there's a white light on the screen, right before the film starts rolling, when Skye draws a long breath to give herself courage, Coulson takes her hand in his and squeezes tightly.

 

+

 

_Who's the girl?_

_Who's the brunette?_

_Who's your girl?_

Everybody asks after the screening.

Thirteen minutes of film in raw state, that's all it took. Three scenes, still without arranged music, without post-production: the love scene by the sea, one of the songs, and Skye tending to a mortally wounded soldier. Out of context, chopped out of the whole, they seem cheap and gaudy. Out of context Coulson hates them, thinks he can do better than this. But the party guests seem to love them.

It's one of those nights a Hollywood director could hope for, all his life even, and never get.

For all he had told Skye to relax the truth is he had been pretty nervous himself until the film started playing. It was a big gamble.

"Congratulations," even Hill says. She must be relieved this doesn't look like another _Magical Place_ fluke in the making. Coulson wonders if she suspects something, if she suspects this is something other than a director happy the investors like the rushes. She seemed surprised and suspicious when Coulson arranged this event – it's not like him, and Hill knows him too well. The quiet reliable man who makes no waves, Hill must be making calculations behind that sharp gaze of hers.

"Why isn't Fury here?" Coulson asks, trying to turn the tables. "All the West Coast investors are here. He should be here."

"It's not the West Coast he's worried about," Hill tells him.

Coulson would very much like to know what Fury worries about.

"Well, we're all here," he says. If Fury wants to reach out he knows where to find him.

" _We're all here_. Even our old friend John Garrett is here," Hill comments.

"Really? I haven't seen him."

Hill didn't really get to know Garrett when he was part of their team, she's too young. Garrett used to be a colleague, back in the early days of SHIELD, until he made a lot of money speculating and decided to move up to safer, more lucrative business than acting. Fury never wanted anything to do with his shadily amassed fortune so Garrett started funding the competence. It had been a blow, a loss of innocence for the time, losing someone most SHIELD workers considered family, discovering he wasn't who they thought he was. As an actor he never really cut it, except in cheap westerns where he constantly chewed on a straw. As a salesman he is very good. Rumor is he is back in town trying to score some big deal with Zanuck. Or was it Howard Hughes. Someone horrid.

"I heard we're losing Victoria Hand," Coulson says, as a not-really non-sequitur.

"Eighteen months for contempt of the Committee," she replies.

"Truth be told, that Committee is very contemptible," Coulson says.

Hill narrows her eyes at him, wrong-footed by his comment. "Are you okay?"

He guesses that wasn't his style. That it didn't sound like him.

"She'll be out in ten," he comments.

Hill gives him a harsh look this time. A dark one. Coulson agrees, ten or eighteen months make no difference, it's bad. 

He scans the room for Skye, this whole talk of committees is making him feel panicked for some reason, like a squad of FBI agents are about to burst into the place and take her away. He calms himself thinking the FBI would never do that, cause a scandal in the heart of Hollywood like that. In any case they would send just one agent, he would quietly talk to Skye and draw her away from the party. That doesn't reassure him too much. He scans the room again. Skye is chatting with Simmons and May. People approach her to give their congratulations on her performance. Men approach her to get a good look.

She looks gorgeous tonight and she was right about the white chiffon dress. Coulson finds it strange that, after discovering her secret, Skye treats him the same way as before. She smiles at him the same way. She leans on him the same way. She still flirts with him, and he still lets her. She should have dropped the act already. Or maybe it was never an act?

"So," Hill interrupts his thoughts. "Are you ready for Puerto Rico."

San Juan used to seem like a long way ago, like he'd never really get there.

"Even though I noticed you cut my five weeks there to four?"

"Grow up, Phil," she tells him.

Coulson smiles at her. He knows comical inversion when he sees it and Hill talking to him like he is twenty years her junior and not the only way around is a good routine.

"You're a producer, not just a director," she reminds him. "You need to think like both."

He doesn't feel like talking shop tonight. Which is ironic because tonight is all about business. This is not a party. It's a magic trick. Or rather, the misdirection part of a magic trick. By focusing on "Skye" he hopes to keep the focus off Skye. If that makes any sense. Act before Raina could ruin everything. Though, if he knows Raina – and he knows her better than he ever wanted – she is obviously working towards a bigger goal, she is not going to go out of her way for a small starlet with no credits to her name. And none of Raina's investors – like movies her line of work has investors too, and they are often the same – would pay for such small fry. Not yet. She likes to play big, dramatic hands; she once bribed a morgue assistant to get exclusive pictures of Lupe Velez body.

For tonight he is not going to worry about that, about Raina, about FBI agents kidnapping his actors, about committees. Tonight was a risk and it has paid off.

Now the only thing he has to do is escape Blake and his houding about casting. About putting one of his out-of-luck clients in his movie.

"I'm not hiring a lunatic for my movie," he says, upon hearing Blake's absurd suggestion.

"The guy has an Oscar," Blake argues.

"Yeah, from back when _I_ was still acting."

"He brings prestige, and he's cheap."

"He's cheap because he's goddamn unstable," Coulson argues. He heard he punched his director in his last film – he also heard he had a very good reason for it but Coulson would rather stay away from drunken troublemakers. And he'd rather not get punched in the face.

"Well, you're lucky tonight went so well," Blake tells him. "The movie will get good rep – hush hush of course – and you can have your pick of fathers for your girl."

"We have Barrymore pretty locked down for the role, anyway."

"Which Barrymore?" Blake asks.

"Does it matter?"

Blake smiles, genuinely, at him.

"I'd better get out of here," he says. "There're too many people I owe money to in the same room."

Coulson rolls his eyes.

"You'd better get your girl right now," Blake adds, gesturing towards the front of the room, by the band. "I think she's getting crowded."

Coulson looks to where Blake has been pointing. Skye in a swarm of admirers. It shouldn't be out of the ordinary. She is a star – or about to be. Every time Blake calls her _your girl_ to him Coulson feels strangely ashamed.

 

+

 

"Come on, sing a song," some guy is saying.

Skye knows they were introduced earlier this evening. She knows he's rich and powerful. She can't remember his name.

"You did it in the movie, do it now," someone else says.

That's not how it works, she wants to say.

They paid me for the movie.

My art is not a party trick.

Just because you got bored with the orchestra, pal.

But Skye can't say that.

Skye has to behave.

She smiles at the people around them. Her smile is conciliatory but cold.

"I normally do this for a living," Skye says to the small crowd around her, to the people who asked her to sing, as if they are going to notice the undercurrent.

No. They don't seem to get it.

Rich people are always the same. Assuming everyone is always at their disposal. She doesn't mean to sound subversive but it's true.

Just because she can sign there are always people who assume she will sing for free. Just because she can act people assume. Just because she's a woman men assume.

She can see Mr Sitwell nodding at her, encouraging but impatient.

One of the men around her – is he the Texan oil tycoon who has put so much money into their movie, or so he told her – tries to reach out and touch her arm.

"You're overwhelming her, guys," Simmons says, cutting in front of Skye awkwardly, trying to intercede but she gets ignored and then push away by the crowd of men.

Skye shakes her head at Simmons and she backs down. She is not about to make a scene because a handful of guys have asked her to sing a little song. She's not about to ruin all the progress she and Coulson have made this evening just because something about this situation makes her feel uncomfortable.

Okay, very uncomfortable.

A man coaxes her towards the piano.

"Come on," he says. "We're among family."

Christian Ward. Not only does she know the horror of a human being he is from Ward's stories but she also heard from Coulson that he controls the channels through which most Hollywood films arrive at the cinema theaters, including SHIELD's films. An important player. Someone not to be argued against. The kind of guy Skye would love to argue against, actually.

Now Ward (their Ward, Grant, that is) looks at his brother, a disgusted expression on his face, but he turns around and walks away from the crowd, away from Skye.

She turns around and Coulson is suddenly there, inexplicably, as she didn't see him walk up to her.

"Come on, gentlemen," he says to the crowd. His tone is light – he is trying not to make a scene too – but he has this judgy expression on his face, the only one he has which manages to actually intimidate Skye.

These rich, powerful men aren't so easily impressed.

"Don't be a killjoy, Phil, it's just one song," a tall man Skye doesn't know says. He seems to know Coulson well, speaking to him in a familiar tone.

"You don't have to," Coulson tells her, in a lower, more intimate tone. "If you don't want to."

And these people respect Coulson, but there are a couple of groans from the audience. Suddenly it's okay, for some reason, and Skye grins at the crowd before her.

"It's fine, it's fine," she says, looking ahead but obviously talking to Coulson. "These people deserve their entertainment. I want to."

It becomes part of the plan. Part of the trick. Anyone here could be an informer. She will smile and bat her eyes at them and do what they want.

She turns around to talk to the musicians, who have been watching in on the scene with disinterested revulsion. Musicians Skye likes, musicians she feels at home with. She concentrates on that, not on the fact that she has basically been bullied to perform in front of an audience.

"Okay, guys? _That's My Desire_ ," she tells the band. "I'm sure you know that one."

She winks at her pianist, flirtingly and a kind of international shorthand between fellow players. Even if the band isn't terribly good – or terribly motivated, a party for fat fish who can only allow stale version of "(I've Got A Girl In) Kalamazoo" or something from _Waikiki Wedding_ , as if anyone could remember that.

Someone kills half the lights in the room, for ambiance, Skye guesses. She shivers, wondering if she is really up to it.

This is different from singing for the movie – she was playing a part there, she was someone else; but then again that's what she did every night at the Tide, make up some character to carry the song, she tried not to be Skye singing to anyone (sometimes she was Skye, singing to Miles, back in the good, naive, clumsy old days). Sometimes she pretended she was in a musical, an aspiring musician about to be discovered when a big producer had accidentally stumbled into her third-rate club because his car had broken down and he needed to make a phone call. She used that fantasy a lot. Or she pretended there was someone special in the audience, that she was a young war bride and her husband had come to see her sing one last time before he was deployed to the Pacific. That kind of stuff. Anything to help her find the right mindset for the song. She wonders who she shall be tonight.

" _To spend one night with you..._ " she starts.

She likes this song. It confers her a certain sense of power in its assertion. It's old, but has gained recent popularity again thanks to the bore of Frankie Laine.

But she is stiff through the first verses, can't stop thinking about the idea of a traitor in this room. There could even be FBI agents infiltrated among the guests – no one believes them but Skye and other members know it's true, they do that kind of thing, crash big Hollywood parties in search of a thoughtless comments. There could even be people from the "subversives squad" of the LAPD, newly incepted and an urban legend to most people, unless you were unfortunate enough to cross paths with them.

A trick Miles taught her when she was starting out – and he had been so much more experienced than her, and she had admired him so much – was to concentrate on one member of the audience to block out distractions.

She doesn't want to look too much at the faces of the people here. Most of them are strangers.

She sees the friendly faces of Simmons and Fitz smiling at her. She sees the worried, supportive face of Coulson, watching from the first row.

" _And dance 'till break of day, that's my desire_."

No, Coulson wouldn't like that. If there's a rule against dancing there definitely is a rule against singing romantic songs to your boss' face, she's sure. So she looks away.

She scans the room again.

She can see Maria Hill across the room, apart from the crowd, arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face. Not entirely unreadable. If Skye had to guess she'd say Hill is assessing if there's any real worth to Skye, now that she doesn't have a script or the studio technicians to help her out. What she can tell is what Hill decides, if she is worth it or not.

There are other gazes on her. She suddenly realizes how many more men are there in the room. It makes sense – the plan was to invite people with power. But these men set her teeth on edge, she's finding it hard to imagine herself singing a romantic song to them.

" _I'll feel the touch of your lips pressing on mine_ "

Coulson's gaze is more like Miss Hill's, full of curiosity. He looks intently at her but the scrunity doesn't feel as uncomfortable. The color of his eyes seems even lighter right now, standing out from the rest of the crowd. This is not the first time she sings for him (she's not singing for him now, she remembers). He didn't know who she was then – now he knows too much, more than Skye had let most people know. It's strange to think that now of all the people in this room Coulson is the one who knows her better.

" _To here you whisper low just when it's time to go_."

She remembers the first time she sang in front of a crowd, shaking with excitement. She was young and desperate then, lining up every night for coffee and doughnuts at Union Rescue Mission, but that desperation made her fearless.

It doesn't matter how many times she's done it. Every night is a debut. She remembers her first night at The Tide now. She was so nervous. She had come to listen to music in the place for over a year, she'd never think she'd be the one up there in the stage. She had been so nervous but Miles had said _I'm here, right by your side_ and that had done it, she had relaxed.

Even tonight she has people supporting her. Simmons and Fitz are silently cheering her on, blocking the view of the leering men behind them. 

And Coulson is here, front row, looking at her kind of like he did that night at The Tide, and kind of looking at her in a completely different light. Supporting her even though – 

A romantic song can make you think ridiculous stuff. 

No dancing. No singing. No... 

But Coulson is smiling at the tune, distracted.

" _Cherie, I love you so, that's my desire._ "

When she finishes her heart is pounding.

Then some timid clapping – Simmons is exuberant about it, Fitz too; Coulson takes a moment to react, still looking at Skye, but he begins to clap as well, even Maria Hill – snaps her out of it.

The excitement dies down fast – much as they clamored for her to sing very few thank her for the effort when she's done. They could have been listening to the radio. Skye is used to singing in places where nobody pays any actual attention to the music, so she doesn't take it personally.

"That was beautiful," Simmons tells her.

Well, bless Simmons.

Skye squeezes her hand before Fitz takes her away, claiming he's heard a rumor about William Cameron Menzies being at the party (Coulson shakes his head at Skye, denying it, but Fitz and Simmons don't notice).

"I'm sorry about that," Coulson says. He has an uncomfortable, sympathetic smile waiting for her.

"That's all right. I'm a big star now," she teases. "I have to get used to all the attention."

Coulson makes a chuckling noise, still disapproving of the whole scene. At least he doesn't seem bothered by her looking at him during the song. Skye is relieved about that.

They watch as Ward – absent during the performance – crosses the banqueting room to the balcony, leaving his family in the wake, obviously upset. Obviously upset looks pretty ugly on Ward's face and Skye worries.

"You think he's all right?" she asks Coulson.

His expression tells her Coulson is worried too.

Both of them stare at the door from which Ward just exited in search of some fresh air.

"His family dropped unannounced," Coulson explains. "He wasn't expecting to have to deal with them tonight."

Ward had wanted to cut ties months ago but his older brother kept popping up uninvited. Skye wonders if Coulson knows that too, how Ward wants to walk away from them, make a name from himself.

The Ward siblings were mixing with the rest of the business people. Ward hadn't wanted them, despite that it was natural for a family to want to see their sibling in the scene of his the producers were showing tonight. They look in their element, having been brought up among this sort. It must be a weird thing, Skye thinks, coming from money, because she couldn't imagine her life being like this. Christian leading the conversations, no doubt, an adept politician in the making, if the rumors are true. Their sister, tall and bony and aloof, a look of disinterest. The youngest brother, pale and blond, not meeting anyone's eyes. Does they always have to travel in a pack? she wonders.

"Can't we do something for Ward?" Skye asks. "Throw them out?"

"Not with Ward's brother investing in theatre chains and productions like ours."

"Does he have money in our–?"

"Not directly. Fury wouldn't allow it. But he owns so many companies, who knows exactly who he has on payroll."

Coulson seems troubled by the idea.

"I guess that's the good part of not having family," Skye comments, the fake cheerfulness about it that she learned long ago. "You don't have to worry about this kind of stuff."

"No, you don't," Coulson says, almost conspirationally.

And yes, Coulson gets it, he's alone in life too.

"I'll go talk to Ward," Skye says.

Coulson nods, letting her take charge, and she goes outside.

Ward is broody by nature, so the luxurious hotel balcony is perfect for him. Skye doesn't mean to be glib about it, but it's true.

"Sorry I missed your performance," Ward says, not turning around.

Skye starts for his side. It stopped raining a long time ago and out of the balcony there's a nice California night. Even with her thin dress Skye doesn't even feel any cold. But there's the freshness of post-rain, which Skye has always liked. The smell of fuchsias and nightshades come alive below them.

"It's okay," she tells Ward. "It wasn't one of my best ones."

"I doubt that," he says in a way, a bit ugly, that makes her wonder if he is drunk.

She approaches him with caution.

"Nice party," she comments, without much commitment.

"Yeah, if it weren't for my brothers."

So he knows the drill. Skye doesn't like to go fo small talk.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure, surprised, that's all," he says, because he always wants to appear stoic. Skye thinks she and Ward are alike in some ways. "I told Christian never to show his face in my presence again."

"I know."

"He promised he wouldn't be here tonight."

Ward had told her what his brother and his parents had done to him, when he was a kid.

Skye hadn't told him that she knew what he was talking about, because she had shared a somewhat similar fate, once upon a time. 

It must have been much more horrible for Ward in a weird way, because it was his real family. As a child Skye sometimes managed to fend off despair in some of her foster homes with the mantra of "these are not my real parents; they don't love me like my real parents would; someday my real parents will come and take me away" and her real parents never did but it was a kind of comfort, hiding in the lie that these were not her real families. The lie didn't save her but she can't imagine how it must feel like, your own blood treating you like Ward's family did. And Ward can't run away the same way Skye run away.

"Why does he keep doing this?" Ward says, between his teeth. "When I asked... when he knows..."

"He's a bad person," Skye says.

He looks at her for a moment. "What does that make _me_?"

" _Hey_ ," Skye says, placing her hand over Ward arm lightly, trying to comfort him. "That doesn't make you a bad person."

Ward glances up again and Skye believes he is going to make a move. She's been waiting for it, has known Ward is attracted to her for a while. As for her, she's been drawn to him from the beginning, but specially after finding out about his family. And yet something holds her back. She's normally more impulsive. The fan magazines have already declared them couple of the year. Who is she to contradict the fan magazines?

But Ward doesn't make a move and part of Skye is so relieved about it that she decides that must mean something.

"You wanna go back?" she asks him.

Ward shakes his head. "You go. I'll be a minute longer."

And if someone understands wanting to be alone at times, that's Skye. So she leaves him there and returns to the party.

 

+

 

His personal objects are already packed in the studio car – in fact May drove by his house first thing in the morning to lend a hand with the suitcases.

Now only the work stuff remains to be packed.

In a weird weird he feels he is packing for more than four weeks; that he is packing for the war. So much of this film has felt like going to war, not just the sets and costumes.

He must be really getting paranoid, because he spent the morning checking for strange cars in hisneighborhood, imagining the FBI deploying some agents to spy on him. Ridiculous. He's no one. But then Skye has been busy all week with the latest horrific development in her investigation – the idea that mobs might be lending a friendly hand to the anti-Communist investigations, hoping to replace Hollywood union workers with their own Teamsters. There's a lot of money to be made in this city, after all. Coulson is not sure he can take on the FBI, but he's pretty sure he can do nothing against Micky Cohen.

At least the chances of feds in Puerto Rico, following him or Skye there, are pretty slim. That's the upside.

Historically Coulson's never liked filming on location. He always felt more secure among studio lots, as he had all his life. Except seeing "Open City" had made him want to take his camera to the streets for once, see how he could measure up.

He's not sure what Skye is doing in his office, watching him fret over taking this notebook or the other, until he remembers he asked her to come and see him.

Until he remembers there's something he has to do, something he has to tell her.

The satisfaction of the investors has given them a moment's respite, and Coulson finds this is probably the only appropriate time to do this.

"It's just be a couple of days, then you and the other actors will meet us there," he tells her, because she looks preocupied. Like she had looked when they showed her rushes.

"No, it's okay," she says, sitting in his chair like she belongs here. "I just – I've never been on a plane, you know."

Coulson can't help but regard her with some amusement. Fond amusement, but still. Worldy Skye, aspiring Soviet agent, scourge of capitalists everywhere, is afraid of flying.

"It'll be fine," he tells her.

She's probably going to love flying, anyway, if he knows her.

Skye stands up again, restless, and paces through his office, almost familiary, looking at the cabinet where he keeps props from the movies he's made. His whole history bared in front of her eyes, his life lived more through those films than really _lived_. Suddenly it seems embarrassing, this old habit of his. But Skye seems approving of the collection.

"Those are the gloves from _Hitler's Heir_ , right? The ones the killer took off every time he was about to strangle his victim. I like that movie, it was scary."

"Thanks."

He's thinking maybe that movie he directed won't sit well with the Committee: this story of a serial killer during the early days of the Third Reich pointed fingers at the upper classes for covering the crimes of one of theirs, it could be interpreted that Coulson was sending anti-Capitalist messages with that one.

Skye takes the chair again, showing even more authority over it this time, drawing her knees up – he'd find the gesture rude in anyone else; it seems like Skye does it without thinking, perhaps an old habit of hers in exchange.

He can't leave town without telling her. He's put it off long enough as it is.

"There's something else," he says.

Skye looks up. "What is it?"

"Something I've been meaning to tell you about."

"Something bad?" she asks.

He swallows. Which tells Skye everything she needs to know. He is finding it hard not to be transparent. He's keeping her secrets from the rest of the world. Why should keeping secrets _from her_ prove so impossible? Because that's what he has been doing, keeping a secret from her. He didn't want to be the one to tell her.

"I've been sitting on this for a few days, I didn't know how to tell you."

"Coulson, you're scaring me," she tells him. "What is it?"

"It's about your parents."

She blinks at him.

"My _parents_?"

"You might be skilled at finding out things but I have friends in high places," he tells her, trying for some much-needed levity. "Like the County Records Office."

"What does that mean? You mean you found my parents?"

How can he do this to her?

"In a way," he says.

Skye puts her legs down again, leaning forward on her seat. Coulson has the advantage of standing up and he wishes they were both sitting, on the couch maybe, together, face to face as equals.

"You know what happened to them? Where are they?" Skye asks, all hopeful, all big shining eyes.

This feels so very much like being stabbed in the heart. In his case that's never just an analogy.

He produces a folder of official documents from under his notebooks. Skye looks at it and touches the edges with her fingertips, but she doesn't take a look at it yet, she doesn't open it. Instead she looks at Coulson with a questioning, pleading glance.

"You were born in San Francisco," he tells her. "Your mother came from China in 1907. She couldn't marry your father because it was illegal. They had met at a clinic where your father was working. They didn't have much details for me, about that. I think it was one of those clinics for the poor."

Coulson does not believe in hereditary features much but for a moment it makes sense to him, from what he knows, that Skye turned out the way she did, even though she never knew her folks.

"My father is a doctor?" she says. "Like in our _movie_?"

She snorts at the coincidence, but Coulson gets paralyzed by the present tense.

The room becomes very still for a second.

"They are dead, aren't they?" Skye says, sparing him from having to form the words.

"I'm sorry."

She looks away, but only for a moment.

"How did they–?"

"Automobile accident. Your father had decided to take his family to Los Angeles after you were born. A neighbor was looking after you while they were at work. That's where you were when..."

She nods.

"What happened to me?" she asks.

"They placed you in the custody of the County," Coulson says, trying to get it all out in one go. "The authorities contacted your father's family but he had cut ties with them because they did not approve of your mother. So they didn't take you in because they didn't want–"

"A half-Chinese granddaughter born out of wedlock," she completes. "Yeah, it's understandable."

It's not, Coulson thinks, pierced by sudden anger. But Skye knows that.

"That's why you were placed in an orphanage."

She nods a couple of times, obviously trying to fight the emotion of the discovery, maybe even the tears. He has seen her on the verge of tears before, it's not a view he likes.

"It must have been a lot of trouble, getting all that information," Skye says. "I never could."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, lamely.

"Yeah, I know," she mutters, glancing down, trying to hide her eyes from Coulson and trying to be subtle about it. "Can I...?"

"Use my bathroom," Coulson tells her, gesturing towards the private ensuite toilet in his office.

He can't blame her for not wanting to cry in front of him.

If she does cry it's in silence, and when she emerges again – only five minutes later – her eyes are not red. Some of her hair is wet at the ends.

"Skye..." he calls. He feels the urge to touch her, but that would be cheap comfort. "Was I wrong to tell you?"

Skye's gaze focuses.

"No, of course not."

"Because the last thing I wanted to–"

"Coulson," she says. "Can't you see what this means? All my life I thought my parents didn't want me. That they left me and didn't care if I lived or died. But they did want me. I was wanted."

So that's what she took from the story. No, he knows better: the heart of the story is that she is alone, all alone, irreversibly alone, in this world.

She can't be all right with that.

"You all right?" he asks.

Skye nods, bravely. 

They keep quiet for a while as he lets her process everything. She just stands there, leaning against his desk, taking the papers he found for her in her hands. Coulson is not sure how long they stand in silence. He knows at the end of it Skye throws a glance towards the big clock above the cabinet. "Of course. I don't want to make you miss you plane."

"That doesn't matter," Coulson says.

"Of course it does," she argues, tilting her head like he is being ridiculous. "I'm fine, I told you."

"I didn't want to be the one who told you," he says all of the sudden. "It's a selfish thought, I know."

Skye narrows her eyes, baffled, again like he is being ridiculous.

"I'm glad you are the one who told me," she says. "You were the one who bothered to find out."

They stand in front of each other for a moment, no more words between them. A moment of dead air that wouldn't go well if this were a movie.

Eventually something has to happen.

Coulson remembers what he is supposed to be doing, and it's not stand in the middle of his own office staring at his actress like an idiot.

"Okay, well, I should..." he says, realizing it really is time to go, for all his protestations. "Like the title says, _I'll see you in San Juan_. In a couple of days."

Skye rolls her eyes at the joke.

He lingers.

He's supposed to be going now, isn't he?

He doesn't like this feeling that he is somehow abandoning her here.

Skye looks at him and then looks down at the floor for a second. Then she hugs him.

He is surprised, but his body welcomes her gesture before he has time to decide.

No one has touched him with this much affection in a long time. Even though he kissed Skye some time ago, that hadn't been real. This is.

Before he has time to process it all, to process how it feels – Skye's breasts pressed against his chest, her mouth brushing his neck for a moment, her hand twisted around the folder containing her parents' death certificates, pressed to the small of Coulson's back – the hug is over.

"Thank you," she says as her body slides away from his, her fingers brushing the crook of his elbow for a moment, as his own hand falls from her back.

Coulson doesn't know what to reply, doesn't know what she is thanking him for exactly. 

His only reaction is to gather his things and leave in silence.

He has the feeling that it's going to be a long two days until the shoot starts again. A long two days until he sees Skye again.


	7. Naming Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _All innocent and Christian people are happy for the courts in Salem! These people are gloomy for it._ "  
> Arthur Miller, "The Crucible"

It turns out San Juan is really nice.

Skye likes it. 

She _loved_ the plane ride here, the first one of her life. 

The city is on the brink of becoming a tourist spot, but not quite yet. The casinos have been legal for eight years now and suburban areas and resorts lie, halfway their construction, outside the city proper. Everything is ready for the opening of the luxury Hilton next year. It's a city on the edge of something, Skye can tell, and she likes those places, worlds in transformation.

They have placed the whole movie crew in small bungalows, side by side, looking out to the ocean. She prefers it to staying at a hotel – though they will need to check with the nearest hotel all the time anyway, since telephone lines are scarce and they need to report their progress to SHIELD HQ.

Puerto Ricans are having a tough time of it, though, with the new and recently enacted Gag Law, and Skye wonders if she'll have time to investigate the local resistance – no, she doesn't want to do anything that might jeopardize the movie but these people are fighting for their freedom, and she might have some helpful experience in that. In Coulson's defense he doesn't outright reject her idea of including some references to the independence movement in the film. 

"That would be doing exactly what the Wisconsin senator is accusing Hollywood of doing, putting red messages in the movies," he argues.

"The House is not interested in whether that's actually true or not," Skye tells him. "So we might as well put those messages in."

"Skye..."

"Did you know the government has made it illegal to display the national flag? Or even sing a patriotic song in public?"

Coulson smiles at her and shakes his head slightly, and he takes her for a walk on the old town, now that the heat is not too oppresive.

She likes the new team members, too. She spends the whole morning with Coulson and Hartley and Mack, looking at the location for Skye's character's house, the one they'll be using in the next few days, specially once the actor playing her father arrives in town.

Hartley is tough and formidable and it looks like she knows Coulson since way back. Skye finds the woman surprisingly upbeat; she can't imagine how hard it must be, having the person you love thrown in jail like that. Skye admires her. 

And Mack is an absolute darling. Excellent at many jobs in the production, from transportation to propmaster, Skye feels immediately at home in his (physically imposing) presence. It's his first time working with Coulson, and it seems like he has the mistaken impression that Coulson is somehow intimidating, because of his reputation. Skye laughs at the idea.

Both Hartley and Mack speak Spanish better than Coulson, but they let him do the talking with the local crew. They spend a long time meeting with electricians and sound people. Skye wishes she had picked some of the language before coming to the island. She feels a bit awkward around all these technical exchanges, out of place.

The walk around town with those two and Coulson is a pleasure otherwise. They let her babble about her character as they wander through old colonial houses, on the cobbled streets of Viejo San Juan, passing under iron-wrought balconies. Coulson indulges her, knowing she wants to understand where her character grew up, what were the sights she saw, what was the smell around her in her teenage years. It helps her.

They finally come atop the San Juan Bay to El Morro, the old Spanish fort outlooking the Atlantic the kept the city safe from pirates during centuries. Even Drake couldn't take it.

"I'm not going down there," Mack says when Hartley proposes they explore the vaulted rooms inside, storerooms, magazines and soldier's quarters from the 16th century. "Haven't you heard the legends? People disappear down there."

They leave the place with Coulson and Skye discussing how they can incorporate the local spooky stories into the movie.

"I'm surprised at you, Phil," Hartley comments when she hears them. "You normally like your scripts pretty locked down."

Coulson shrugs, refusing to answer.

The whole crew – minus Ward, who has to stay back in town to telephone his agent or something along those lines – go to the beach before lunch, because Simmons says she wants to see Isla Verde. Skye would have never imagined Simmons was such a beach person. Skye? Not so much.

"Why?" Coulson asks, when she admits it.

"Those new bathsuits, they are just too revealing," she says non-chalantly.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a prude."

Skye laughs, dropping her head. They are close together, sitting on the same towel and her hair falls on Coulson's shoulder. He looks confused and pleased.

"Not at all," she explains. "When I was eighteen the Party organized a strike at the factory I was working in. This was in Kentucky. I was there, first in the picket line. When they scabs came one of them pushed me to one side, he threw me right against a pile of construction materials. I slid, rather dramatically I should say, along a barbed wire."

"Ouch," Coulson exhales.

"Precisely. I thought I was going to die for sure, there was so much blood – the owners too, I think it was the idea of casualties what made them agree to our demands. But my body was such a Universal horror movie. Still have the scars, all criss-cross on my stomach. I love the modern bathsuits, but I could never wear them in public, it's all _ugh_ there. So I hope you weren't planning on any nude scenes for the movie."

She's not sure why she felt the need to tell him the story of her stupid scars. It's not like he is going to be seeing them.

Coulson looks down, but she doesn't want him to think she is looking for pity.

"Also I never learned to swim," she adds.

Coulson chuckles.

Skye looks out at the water. Fitz, Simmons and Trip have been enjoying themselves there since they arrived. May is nowhere to be seen, as she is fond of long walks that have probably taken her to the other side of San Juan.

When she looks back at Coulson he is staring out at her – the sun is behind her and he has to narrow his eyes a bit to focus. 

"A factory strike at eighteen, uh?"

"Yes."

"I feel like every minute I spend listening to your stories the Committee is adding one year to my sentence."

Skye smirks. "Are you scared of me?"

Coulson holds her gaze, almost defiantly.

"Am I interrupting?"

Skye turns around, covering her eyes against the sun. Mack is towering over them. She looks back at Coulson and he has already dropped his gaze. He is digging his toes in the sand. It's a strange picture of the man – pants rolled up to halfway his shin, the dark layer of hair on his legs, the thin white shirt with nothing underneath, the hair a mess. In a way he doesn't look like Coulson, and Skye is fascinated by the idea. 

"Not at all," she tells Mack.

"Can I take one?" he asks, holding out his camera. He spent the whole morning taking pictures of the locations they visited. It's not just that he helps out Hartley with the scouting, he told her, it's that he has a real passion for it.

Mack spent the last hour and a half taking pictures of the pretty beach, of Trip playing with Fitz and Simmons among the waves like the three of them are children instead of consumate Hollywood professionals, May becoming gradually smaller against the horizon, Hartley sitting on the beach bar, quiet for hours.

Skye nods enthusiastically and leans back on her hands, giving Mack a pose and a smile. She leans against Coulson's chest. After a moment of confusion he goes along with it as well, looking up at Mack and slipping one arm around Skye's back. Skye holds her breath, feeling the warmth of a hand on her shoulderblade, until she hears the _click_ of the camera.

 

+

 

"That seems like a really nice shot," Skye comments as they finish setting the camera at the bottom of the stairs.

It's going to be a spectacular shot, indeed. He thought about it as soon as Hartley showed him inside the house.

"You want to watch?" Coulson asks.

Skye tilts her head. "Are you sure?"

He gestures for her to come closer, near the privileged director's spot.

She walks to his side, almost shyly, not wanting to be a bother to him or Fitz. She's still in her character clothes, having finished her scene a while ago, the reverse angle of this – coming from the war to the old family house, all the silence of her father's death around. Coulson wanted the effect of an eerie nights on the film, that's what he waited until late afternoon. Day for night wouldn't have cut it here. And the day was too hot for them to shoot. They can only do mornings and afternoons.

He's shot a lot of stock of all the furniture, tracking shots along hallways into abandoned rooms. He wants the audience to be able to see the dust in the air.

"Then we'll put your voiceover," he explains to Skye. "It should sound dream-like."

"Very avant garde," she comments, touching her mouth approvingly.

He explains how they set the shot. The technicalities of it, the rail on the side of the steps, the close angle so you can't see it as the camera moves up. He explains how the director checks the frame, before leaving it to the camera operator – and to luck, of course.

"You have to trust your DP," he is saying. "Many a young director learn that the hard way. I don't think I learned it until my third picture."

"What are you doing? Grooming me to become a director?" Skye teases him. "Being an all-singing all-dancing screen sensation is not enough for him?"

Coulson shrugs, decides to be honest. "I just think you'd be really good at it."

She beams at him.

"Thanks."

A bit flushed in the cheeks. For all her overwhelming self-confidence Skye often acts as if other people's faith in her is so surprising. But it shouldn't be.

They don't get it the first take. They have to reset the whole scene. Mack is a great help here, lending a hand even though this is outside his obligations. Coulson makes a mental note to include it in the paycheck later. Throughout it all Skye keeps close to him, listening to his explanation, attentive, unintrusive. At the end of it Coulson is pretty satisfied with it, the long sweeping shot upwards, ending on a close up of the decrepit chandelier.

"Good job, everyone," he says, and he didn't use to say this, but it's become a habit of late. Maybe because this movie is such a frail thing, he really appreciates the effort, takes it as something personal.

The crew seems to return the sentiment, they go away tired but satisfied.

Tomorrow will be a different beast. More about the acting and less about the atmosphere. A romantic sequence between Skye and Ward. Barrymore finally joining the team in the afternoon. And the temperatures are set to keep rising.

"Hartley is going to showing me the bar scene tonight," he tells Skye. He wants her to come. There should be nothing wrong about that. He enjoys Skye's company, and he's had it all day, he's used to it, he doesn't want it to stop. "Want to join us?"

She bites her bottom lip guiltily.

"I'd love to, I really would," she replies. "But I promised Ward I'd run lines with him tonight."

"Some other time," Coulson says, because she looks genuinely distressed that she can't accept his offer.

"I'd like that," she says, a little sadly, like she doesn't believe he'll ask again.

He makes a mental note to ask her again.

 

+

 

Skye admits it, she normally sees this kind of stuff coming, but she is surprised when Ward kisses her.

Perhaps because she herself hasn't been considering the possibility too much lately. She accepted his offer of a drink while they rehearsed, but she didn't think that meant she was giving Ward permission to leave the realm of the professional behind.

So yes, she's a bit shocked when he grabs her as she is ranting about her character and he closes his mouth over hers, his strong hands clutching her waist. Skye kisses back politely, of course, and then she pulls away just as politely. She already knew he was a good kisser, that part is not new. But somehow she preferred it when they were kissing in front of the cameras. Something about the whole situation – Grant asking her to his room, his now understandable disinterest in going through the script, the way he interrupted the work to get a drink for the two of them – feels off key.

"I thought you just wanted to run lines for tomorrow," she says, a bit stunned.

She wiggles out of Ward's embrace, trying to be delicate and light about it.

Ward smiles at her, the kind of smouldering smirk all the fan magazines are talking about. Skye gets it. Still, she doesn't feel like tonight is the night for seductive, smouldering smiles from her co-star.

"You know what a guy means when he says he wants to run lines," Ward says.

She frowns at the idea. "No, I don't."

"Come on, Skye," Ward calls, soft and low, touching her arm. "You don't have to play games."

"I'm not, I swear. I swear I thought you had asked me here to work."

He cocks his head to one side. Looking at Skye with a _come on, don't bullshit me_ expression. Skye is not trying to bullshit anyone here.

"What does Coulson mean when he asks you to his office to _run lines_?" he says.

"He means exactly that," Skye replies, actually offended by that, on her behalf and Coulson's, "and I don't think I like the direction this conversation is taking."

Ward lifts his hands, apologetically, cutely.

"Okay, I understand. I'm sorry about that. But now you know – I didn't want to run lines with you. Skye, I want... so much more."

A man like Ward, she knows how hard it is for him to open up, how hard it must be, right now, to admit he has this kind of feelings for Skye. She doesn't want to hurt him in any way.

"Grant... it's really not the moment."

"Is there such a thing as _the moment_?"

Yes, there is, she thinks. Though she wonders, examining her own reaction, if there could ever be a moment for her and Ward.

"I just meant... let's take this slow. Okay?"

His smile becomes warmer now, encouraged by her words.

"Of course," he replies, taking the glass of scotch he had been nursing and examining it. "First of all, we're out of ice. Let me go get some for us. You stay here."

Skye nods and sits on the bed, pleased with Ward's call.

At least it's some kind of out, or at least it's a reprieve.

She waits until he's gone to stand up again, making a decision. She knows exactly how long it will take him to get the ice from the bar two blocks from the bungalows. And she doesn't intend to be here when he comes back.

Skye knows that's a cruel move, but she really doesn't feel like having a confrontation right now. If Ward were to ask she wouldn't be able to say exactly why she is rejecting him. He seems like the perfect fit for her. And it's not like she has other prospects right now. None realistic, anyway.

But she is not going to leave without an explanation – Ward is not just her friend, they work together, and being on good terms is essential for the movie. 

A note, Skye thinks. She is going to leave him a note apologizing for her behavior. Offering to have a real drink with him when this is all over. She's not sure what she'll do then, when the moment comes, but at least this way she would protect the film.

She searches the room for paper and pen. She searches the bureau and drawers, and Ward's briefcase.

She never finds paper and pen.

She does find pictures, though. Lots of pictures. Files, plate numbers, surveillance logs, lists of "crimes". She recognizes herself in the pictures – meeting with Miles at the pharmacy – as well as Coulson, May, Maria Hill, long shots of people leaving the studios. 

Yes, she recognizes her own stupid face in those pictures.

How could she have been such an idiot?

Skye covers her mouth and lets out a silent scream.

"He's the mole," she whispers.

She looks closer at the list of crimes. Ward – and she recognizes the handwriting – has made a pretty accurate summary for the fellows at the FBI. What an applied little soldier. Suspect movies and who worked in them. Suspect associations. Scraps of conversations he overheard at the studio cantina – the names of pro-union people, from famous actors to the humblest set carpenter, all of them doomed. Anyone who has ever talked to Ward in confidence. Including Skye. The file on her is pretty long. No wonder.

All of them doomed because they trusted Ward.

It all falls into place.

Ward has worked for SHIELD for ages, yet he still has an outsider status. He can easily distance himself from the unforgivable deeds Joe McCarthy believes the studio has committed. And one wonders what kind of deal he has cut to be so dedicated. This goes beyond naming names. This is – being a _spy_.

Skye feels sick.

Ward's family. Of course. Christian and his multiple business deals with right-wing companies, his free market approach. SHIELD supporting the independent unions all these years, against those who want to keep Hollywood unregulated. The Wards could make a killing with this. Skye wonders if Grant's hatred of his brother is even true, seeing how everything else he has ever told her has been a lie.

She feels like a fool.

She _is_ a fool.

Ward playing her like this. Pretending to be her mentor when she had needed to learn the trade. Making her like him. Pretending he liked her. Playing everybody in the crew. 

She has slipped. How didn't she see this coming?

But she doesn't have time to kick herself mentally, or wonder how she could have been so stupid in the first place. She holds the files in his hand, the neatly-organized information compose for the easy handling of FBI agents. She has to decide what to do now. 

Oh, god, what is she going to do? She fears there's no really a way out, whatever she does she's doomed already. She has lost. The bad guys won and she's going to jail for sure. That is, if the subversives squads doesn't do something worse to her. Skye has a sudden flash of the internment camps in Texas, Idaho, New Mexico.

She kicks her panic away, because that's not going to help anyone.

Her first instinct is to run, take the files and run, but it's too late, she can hear Ward outside the room, footsteps coming closer.

There's no time to put the files and pictures back in their place so she decides to go on the offensive, throwing the evidence on the bed when Ward opens the door, like an accusation. No, not like. An accusation. She gets to accuse for once.

"How long have you been spying on your colleagues?" she asks him, voice sharp.

Ward's smile freezes when he sees all his stuff spread over the bed covers.

Skye can tell he is searching his brain for excuses.

She has been stupid, but that doesn't mean she's going to allow this son of a bitch to treat her as if she were, in fact, stupid.

"This is not–"

"It was you. You're the mole. You're the FBI informer. The _traitor_ "

Anger is a good counsellor. Anger makes her bold right now. Anger insulates her from feeling anything else, all the other things she doesn't want to feel right now. 

"Skye, let me explain."

"What is there to explain?"

Ward doesn't answer. 

"All this time thinking you were..." Skye goes on. Wearily, she puts the folder down on the desk. "How could you do this to us?"

"You don't understand. SHIELD is doing bad things."

She laughs at him.

"No. _You_ are doing bad things."

"They are _unAmerican_. They employ Communists."

"I am a Communist," Skye argues. She looks away for a moment, hating Ward for making her feel, for the first time in her life, that she really should be afraid of saying that word. "Which of course you already know because you have a _whole folder_ about me in here."

"Yeah but you are –"

"What are you getting out of this?"

There's a beat. Skye thinking Ward doesn't even believe on the crap the Committee is saying about being American or unAmerican. It's probably just an angle. For some reason that makes it worse. She would prefer a pinko-hating true believer.

"The FBI will help," Ward admits.

"With what?"

"My career. And protecting me from accusations. They promised immunity."

She laughs again, trying to maneuver herself around him across the room, hoping she can walk towards the door without him noticing. She looks at him now and she realizes, for the first time, he might be dangerous.

"Well, you are not that good an actor, so they'd better help with your career."

"Skye –"

"And for me? How much will you get for selling me out? How much is it worth, me in prison, or dead?"

"I would never sell you out, Skye. I'm not going to turn you in, I'll keep your secret. I'll protect you."

She blinks at him.

"So you're just going to put everybody who's ever been good to me in jail? Coulson? May? Mr Fury? That's supposed to _reassure me_? I should be grateful? No, thank you, I don't need your protection."

"Please Skye. You know how I feel about you."

She steps back. Revolted.

And ashamed. What is so wrong about her that it provoked desire in someone like Ward?

"You're a murderer," he tells her.

Ward looks shocked.

"I'm not a murderer."

She is defeated, but unwilling to concede this point. She's all bravado at this point, but she figures it's the only way she's going to get out of this room, which is all she wants in the world right now, get away from here, away from this monster.

"How can you say that? Eric Koenig. How can you work with Hartley knowing what she's going through because of you. People have died, Ward, " she says. " _Because_ of what you have done."

Ward shakes his head. "I have nothing to do with that. I just pass the information on."

Skye wides her eyes. Does he really believe that? Is his mind so twisted?

"And what did you think the FBI was going to do with that information? What do you think they'll do to me when you tell them who I am?"

"No. I can cut a deal with them so you'll be safe. I told you, I would never inform on you."

"Oh, right, I'm the exception. No, thanks."

She backs up again, trying to reach the door. She doesn't think Ward is going to _physically_ do anything to her, not at this point (he's weirdly still trying to romance her, and the idea makes a bitter taste push up inside Skye's throat) but she can't be sure. And she has some experience in fending off men, but Ward is too big, too strong. She doesn't want to be scared, she's angry at herself for being scared. But the truth is she _is_ scared.

"Skye, you don't understand."

"You're right, I don't understand. And I was wrong, when I told you weren't a bad man," she says, remembering how she tried to comfort him, remembering with disgust. "As for your protection... I never wanted it and I never will."

She walk out of the room, too terrified that Ward is following her to look back. It's a long while before she can take another breath in the sultry San Juan night.

_Coulson_ , she thinks suddenly. _I have to find Coulson._

 

+

 

Sweltering pits with cheap alcohol and good music, that's how Hartely has always liked her bars. She seems to fit right in.

And Hartley has always liked her liquor hard and fast. Coulson could never keep up. He's not trying tonight. He's just glad to be spending some time with an old friend. He knows he's not great at that, friendship, keeping in touch. For some reason he feels like he wants to do better these days, he feels like he misses the world.

The joint Hartley has taken him to is for locals, mostly, which is exactly how she prefers it. And Coulson can't say it's not for the better. Better mood, better alcohol. Much much better music than the casino bars and the tourist destinations. The heat, though, is getting to him. He has had to take off his jacket and roll up his sleeves, and still he can feel drops of sweat running down the back of his neck continously.

"Come on, Coulson," Hartley says, when she seems to feel he is avoiding the elephant in the room. "Ask."

Coulson looks around. The worries of their LA lives seem far away from here. They are sitting on one of the tables besides the dancing floor. The musicians are playing fast and dirty and couples dance, dripping love and desire, and Coulson wonders how many people have heard of the name McCarthy in this room.

"So, how is she doing?" he finally asks.

Hartley gives him a slow smile, but he can see it's a bit frayed at the edges.

"You know her," Hartley says, though Coulson doesn't know Hand that well, but perhaps he knows her in what matters. "She is tough."

"And loves playing tough."

Hartley's smile softens, more genuine now. "Remember when she first came to the studio? She thought everything had to be done her way. What a conceited asshole."

Coulson smiles back at her, fondness painting Hartley's voice with every word.

Hand always was a pain in the ass – but the kind of pain in the ass you want on your team. Fury saw that right away. Hartley saw that she was the pain in the ass she wanted in her life right away, too. Everyone in the studio noticed from day one.

"Why do you think they went after her?" he asks.

Hartley purs herself some more rum.

"She's important but not too important. They couldn't go after the top brass right away," she says. Coulson agrees with that theory. He feels relieved, just being able to talk about this with someone. "And Victoria was in Madrid in '37. I think they are going to use that, mostly. Spain."

He nods. He's safe in that sense, he wasn't one of the chosen. But that's a bit besides the point, thinking of his behavior the last couple of months. That's more than enough ammunition to condemn him. He tries not to think about that. He focuses on his friend instead.

"And how are _you_ doing?"

"I'm writing love letters," Hartley says. He does a double take, as he never thought he'd hear those words from Isabelle Hartley's mouth. "Long, awfully sentimental love letters."

Coulson tries not to find this too amusing. Gruff, down-to-earth Isabelle Hartley writing letters to her lover in prison. No one would buy the rights to such an absurd scenario. He thinks it's almost sweet.

"Well, I'm sure Victoria appreciates them."

Hartley groans.

"Or she's laughing her ass off." She finishes another drink. "You know how every couple promises they'll be different to the rest? That's crap. All couples are the same. In the end we all cave in. And end up..."

"Writing love letters?" he offers.

Hartley slaps his arm. The rum is starting to get to her, maybe and only maybe, but Coulson thinks it's nice to see her relax and in good spirits (pun intended) when her world has just fallen apart. He just wishes he could do more about it, somethig better than offering his pathetic shoulder to cry on.

"You know that whatever you or Victoria need..." he starts. "You know you have friends. If you need money or anything –"

"Save it," she stops him. "Nick gave me that speech already."

Coulson chuckles. "You know, you and Romanoff are the only ones who dare call him _Nick_. I have always admired you for that, I could never do that."

"I hear Romanoff might get deported," Hartley says.

"Yeah," he replies, somber. "Just like Bertolt Brecht."

" _Brecht_?"

Shit. Coulson winces. Perhaps Hartley is not the only one affected by the alcohol.

"Forget I said that."

"You were her first director when she arrived in America. Are you afraid they'll call you to testify about that?"

He looks down. He remembers working on that first movie with Natasha. She had been too young and wild and unruly, a European queen unwilling to adapt to America's ways of making cinema. Coulson believed he didn't have time for someone like her. Fury made him go through with the movie anyway. He's glad he did. He hasn't spoken to Natasha in a long time, but he can't imagine SHIELD studios without her.

"Are you afraid they'll call _you_?" he asks Hartley.

The woman makes a gracious gesture, lifting her glass.

"I think it's a bit too late for that to make a difference," she says, sadly.

Coulson puts his hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay," he tells Hartley humorously. "Maybe we all have long, sentimental love letters inside of us."

It's a joke but Hartley narrows her eyes at him.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks.

He hides his mouth behind his glass.

"What do you mean?"

"You used to be a heartless bastard. And now you're asking me how I'm doing? How Victoria is doing? What changed you?"

"Nothing, nothing's –"

He notices Hartley looking away from him, something grabbing her interest. 

"What?" Coulson asks.

"It seems like our girl has come out for a drink in the end," she says, gesturing towards the entrance of the joint.

He follows her gaze.

There's Skye, behind the dancing couples, at the door, scanning the room wildly.

He notices the look on her face.

"Something's wrong," Coulson mutters and stands up.

As he approaches her Skye's distress becomes more and more visible, to the point where he believes she's trembling a bit.

She comes to meet him halfway, and raises her fingers to him like she wants to grab him by his shirt, but thinks better of it in the end.

"I didn't know what to do... I looked for you in every bar and –"

"What?"

"It's him. It's Ward."

 

+

 

She feels better just by standing here, in Coulson's room, sitting on his bed. He's not as tidy as one might expect, Skye thinks, looking at the state of the place. What a ridiculous thing to think about in these circumstances.

"Are you okay?" Coulson asks, shaking her out of it.

Skye looks up at him.

"I was scared."

"That's okay," he tells her.

"It was right in front of me and –"

"None of us saw this coming. We have worked with Ward for a lot longer."

"But this is what I do," Skye argues, angry at herself. "I should be good at this. Because if not... what's the point of me?"

She feels like Coulson wants to say something to that but he stops himself, wisely, like he knows Skye is not ready to hear it. She's not ready to forgive herself yet. So stupid. She was so stupid. How many people will pay the consequences because she was so blind? It's never really just her ass on the line.

"I'm so sorry," she adds, because she ended up failing Coulson too, after everything he's done. "I said I wanted to protect you from exactly this. And all the time I have been feeding information to the enemy."

She drops her gaze, no longer angry but something else entirely.

Coulson sits by her side on the bed, his fingers touching her wet face for a moment. 

"This is not your fault," he tells her. 

For a moment Skye touches his hand.

"It's not," he repeats.

A platitude. And one Skye absolutely needs right now.

When the moment finishes Coulson stands up again, going to his desk to get the pitcher of water.

"What are we going to do now?" Skye asks.

"Well, first of all, fire Ward, obviously."

"But the movie –"

"The movie doesn't matter. If we can finish it without him, good. If not... anyway I'm not letting that bastard stay in my crew for one more day."

She nods. It's a strange relief, the lack of hesitation in Coulson about that. Skye's faith in humanity has taken a severe blow tonight, but this man is repairing it a bit.

"Of course I can't force you to keep working on it," Coulson adds. "If you think you'll be safe going somewhere else..."

She shakes her head.

"No, I want to finish this film."

She doesn't tell Coulson it doesn't matter much, now, what she does. By tomorrow night Ward would have surely turned her over to the feds. By the time she comes back from Puerto Rico there will be a subpoena waiting for her. She might as well do something worthy with the time she has left.

Coulson pours a glass of water for her.

She's exhausted, he's right. Just getting all the story out, what Ward had said and what she discovered, just the mere words have tired her out. She has no idea how long she has been in his room, speaking. For a moment she has the absurd desire to just lie here, in Coulson's bed, and sleep.

But there's something else. Skye feels ashamed of so much that happened tonight, but she feels like she _needs_ to tell him everything.

"He kissed me," he tells Coulson. "Ward. Before I found out."

"Did he–?"

"No, no," Skye cuts him, seeing the horror in Coulson's eyes. "It's not why I said it. He said he could protect me from the Committee. And he thought that I would take the deal, he was sure of it. Why would he think that?"

Coulson draws a breath. 

"People like Ward, in my experience, imagine everyone they meet shares their lack of values."

"Careful, Coulson. You sound like a Commie," she points out.

He hands her the water.

"You're a bad influence."

She feels herself smiling at that.

"I think it's better that you stay here while I go talk to Ward," Coulson tells her, all of the sudden.

The thought of him confronting Ward, now that she knows wat Ward is capable of, upsets her. She'd want for Coulson to stay right here with her. At least tonight.

"You're going to talk to him _now_?" 

"Of course," Coulson says, grabbing his jacket. "I want him out of this island on the first plane tomorrow."

"Thank you," she says, feeling a part of it all is that Coulson doesn't want Skye to be put in a position where she has to face Ward ever again.

"You don't have to thank me," he replies.

"Be careful."

Coulson smirks. "What? You don't think I can take him?"

She rolls her eyes. She knows he is just trying to cheer her up. He says that but Skye is pretty sure his next move is waking May up so she can go with him to talk to Ward.

" _Of course_ ," Skye says.

In the end Coulson gives her a look from the door, both of them gathering their resolves, before leaving.

Skye listens to the footsteps, getting softer until she can't hear anymore.

She lies down on the bed, Coulson's bed, over the covers, and immediately falls asleep.


	8. Cheek To Cheek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Double the stakes, says the clock_  
>  To the ageing dancer;  
> Double the guard, says Authority,  
> Treble the bars;  
> Holes in the sky, says the child,  
> Scanning the stars."  
> Louis MacNeice, "Holes in the Sky", 1948

"You will regret this," Ward tells him in the morning, when he makes sure he leaves for the airport. "No one in Hollywood will want to work on this movie."

Two hours later, Coulson realizes Ward had already made arrangements for that to happen.

 

+

 

"Not much we can do against Ward's maneuvering from here," May comments.

"No," Coulson replies.

May looks more pissed off than Skye has ever seen her. If she were Ward she would pray that she never crossed paths with May again. She looks like she could murder him.

The reunion is gloomy, the core of their crew sitting around on every available surface inside Coulson's room, discussing the bleak future.

Skye shifts, uncomfortable, propped against the headboard. It's the afternoon. She woke up in this bed some hours earlier, having slept for ages, exhausted after the scare with Ward. At some point during the night she had slipped under the covers and the bedsheets, like it was her own bed. Coulson had woken her up at noon, sweetly, shaking her by the shoulders gently, with a cup of coffee ready on the nightstand.

He had explained everything that had gone wrong while she was sleeping.

Ward had lost no time, apparently. Putting calls to Los Angeles through the night. He wasn't going after her, he was going after the movie, after Coulson, after the studio. His lawyer had managed some sort of gag order so SHIELD could not use his image in their films – on the grounds that it could land him in legal trouble. Every feet of film they have shot with Ward on it is now useless. Half the movie. But Coulson didn't say he was going to give up on it, he didn't say their only option was folding and going home. It wasn't just Ward's contract. Coulson had spent all morning on the phone with Maria Hill. Christian Ward had promised to ruin the studio and seemed to have announced it to the whole world – Christian Ward, about to become the biggest cinema theater chain owner in the country, has promised to ruin anyone who worked on "I'll See You In San Juan". Barrymore has pulled out, obviously, he canceled his flight. A couple of investors have pulled out, including the Texan oil tycoon Skye had met at the party. The movie's budget has suddenly shrinked to "whatever we're wearing right now". Skye is glad Ward has been able to put differences with his brother aside in order to destroy Coulson and his film.

She feels this is all her fault.

In the afternoon Coulson invited everybody to come to his bungalow to explain the situation. That included _Skye's situation_. She knew the day had to come. The crew looked shocked – she really played the part of the starlet without a past too well – and a bit hurt, specially Simmons and Fitz.

But there are more pressing matters than the fact that she has been lying to her closest friends for months. Hartley has many colorful adjetives for what Ward has done to them.

"Maybe Ward is being threatened, too," Fitz is saying, unable to accept the betrayal. "The FBI. We don't know. Maybe he doesn't mean to–"

"Fitz," Coulson interrupts. Skye can see the tension in his jaw. "Stop that. I know it's hard to accept but Ward did this to us. We have to move on from that."

Fitz looks down, quiet for the rest fo the reunion. Skye feels angry at him, then ashamed. Fitz knew Ward for years before Skye even entered the picture. But then she thinks about the files Ward had in his possession, how he hadn't hesitated in condemning Fitz as well, on composing his list of crimes to pass on to the FBI.

"What are we going to do now?" she asks.

The room falls silent.

"I'd like to finish the movie," Coulson says, simply. "With your help."

"How?" Simmons asks. "Is it even possible?"

"We focus on Skye's character. We cut the scenes with Ward, and make it her story. We keep the romance, but we get the girl's point of view through it all."

He and Skye had been discussing it among themselves before the rest of the crew arrived. Instead of the story of a spoiled rich boy changed by his experiences in the world they'll do the story of a shy, poor girl strengthened by her experiences in the war. Yes, she will get to be with the man she loves in the end, but that won't be the point at all. Her journey would be the main thing. Skye couldn't help but thinking that would make a much better film, if they managed to actually shoot it.

"Who will take Ward's role?" May asks. "We still need a leading man."

"What about Trip?" Skye suggests. "He's handsome. And a way better actor than Ward."

Trip gives him a warm smirk from accross the room. "Thanks, girl, but I don't think having me as the face of this movie is going to fix anything, quite the opposite. Plus the Hays office wouldn't let me kiss you."

Skye groans. 

"See? This is why you guys need Communists."

Everyone shifts uncomfortably at the mention.

Skye looks at Coulson. "It was a joke."

"The thing is," he says to the team. "We have some options here. We still have twelve days of shooting in this island before the money runs out. Fitz has brought light equipment, we can do a lot of handheld sequences and save a lot of time."

"Fast and dirty," Hartley comments. "All right then, I'm in."

"I can request that new type of film I was telling you about," Simmons joins in. "It's more sensitive, we'll cut a lot of time setting up lighting."

"Make the calls," Coulson tells her. "If they have it in a lab in Miami we might be in luck."

"What about our other problem?" Mack asks. He has been quiet and grave-looking through the discussion. "The political problem."

Coulson looks resigned.

"Ward has already sold us out, we can't change that," he explains. "We don't know how long it'll take for that information to reach HUAC. But I suggest you call your lawyers tonight, protect yourselves as much as you can."

"We're still missing one leading man," May points out.

"I have a leading man for you," Hartley offers.

"Really?"

"He's working out of Mexico right now, so he'd be here in time," she tells them. "His personality leaves a lot to be desired and he drinks too much but he's a good actor. And he's British, he won't care about being blacklisted. I can throw in a Barbara Morse for the same price."

"You think Bobbi will come work in this movie?" Coulson asks.

Hartley nods. "She will if I tell her to."

Skye is impressed. Bobbi Morse works mainly in Europe and Japan, but she is a big star. She had no idea her connection to SHIELD was that strong.

It seems like most questions have been settled then.

"I believe in this movie," Coulson says, solemn all of the sudden. "I think it will be worth the effort. And do not be mistaken, it will be a lot of work. But I also need you to understand the risks. Staying on could harm your career, you might even end up in jail. That's why this has to be _your choice_. I can't order you to stay, you have to decide for yourselves. If anyone wants to leave, I'll understand."

There's silence.

But no one leaves.

Coulson nods, throwing a proud smile at his team. "Thank you."

He looks touched, and Skye is touched too. They know who she is, they know they could be subpoenad just for talking to her. She has lied to them. To close friends, even. But they are all willing to pitch in, fight against the odds.

There's still a big question looming, what with Barrymore pulling out of the movie.

"What about the role of my father?" Skye asks. "Who will do that?"

Coulson drops his gaze. He runs his hand through his hair and it's like the next words out of his mouth are painful for him to speak.

"Let me call Blake."

 

+

 

"Never travel to another country drunk," Cal says. "It's very confusing."

"Cal."

"Mr Coulson."

Coulson can tell the man doesn't like him, even though they have never met before.

Blake said Coulson was doing him a personal favor – Blake, strangely classy for one day in his life, didn't tell Coulson _I told you so_ , as he had predicted the whole situation months ago. Apparently Cal owes Blake money too. Apparently he owes money to half of West Hollywood, and even a couple of guys in East Hollywood.

Coulson tried calling other actors, of course, but they all declined – threatened, no doubt, by Ward and his acolytes, by the FBI, by their own studios, or a combination of all that. The machinery had acted promptly and effectively. The name SHIELD is poison to the ears of agents right now. Cal was the only one who had said yes. At this point of his career Coulson imagines a polemic could only give him a boost.

He used to be a great actor, once. A lot of prestige. A Ronald Colman in his own right. That was before his wife died, and before he started drinking and picking fights with directors and producers (one thing can be said for the man, he always punches up). Where he once was used to appearing in Clarence Brown melodramas and work with Norma Shearer now Cal spends his days in productions like "Zombies on Broadway" and "The Monster Maker", opposite some cousin of Lon Chaney, perhaps. Now he is confined to third rate horror movies, double-feature stuff which recycled Universal costumes and storylines. He's a backwater Doctor Frankenstein. 

"Thank you for this opportunity," he is telling Skye, as if she were the one who gave him the job. "I was tired of playing second fiddle to rubber monsters. But this script? This is exciting. Real emotions!"

Skye gives Coulson a questioning look over her shoulder. He shakes his head and Skye laughs, showing Cal the way to today's location.

The irony being, of course, that he is the one resembling a monster here; touching down in San Juan with barely a ragged leather bag, clothes all wrinkled and his black hair unruly, a mess. 

"How did his wife die?" Skye asks him later, sitting on his bed like she has take rightful possession of Coulson's room without asking.

"Early days of the war," he explains. "She was a British double agent working out of Berlin. The Germans found out and shot down her plane out."

He realizes it must sound like the plot of a movie, but Skye doesn't question it.

"She must have been a great woman," she says. She must be thinking about the wreck of a human being Cal is now.

The story is a Hollywood legend, Skye must have heard it by any other name. Part of the reason Cal still finds work now and then is because of the sympathy his plight arises in people, and the memory of what his wife had done for the Allies – even a cynical clown like Blake has it in him to keep the man on, despite how little revenue he must be getting. Cal had tried to get her wife out of Germany in time but she had considered her mission was too important. And just like the plot of a movie she passed as a careless socialite while informing on her Nazi patrons. Coulson feels like there's something incredibly ironic in the way the widower of such a person ends up playing father to someone like Skye.

"I have to warn you, I'm very Method," Cal warns Skye.

It takes very little for the crew to understand what he means by that.

Coulson is not that amused by this quirk. It's Skye's call, of course, but he thinks there's something twisted, that he is using her in a way.

"I don't know," Skye says. Coulson hasn't said a word but of course Skye could tell what's on his mind. "I like him. At first he creeped me out, I admit. And I know it's all method but... it's nice to be treated like I am family. To someone, anyway."

Perhaps Coulson has been looking at it the wrong way this whole time. Cal _is_ a lunatic but not a malicious man, and perhaps Skye deserves to be pampered for a while, even in a fantasy. Perhaps Coulson should support that and not try to come between them. After what happened with Ward one would think Skye would close herself off from other people, would become mistrusting. Instead she has given her unstable colleague a chance. Because this is Skye we are talking about.

"As long as you are comfortable with him," Coulson tells her.

"Are you comfortable with him?"

"He's a pain in the ass," he admits. "And I'm a bit scared of his history of punching directors in the face. But he does get results."

"He does. Our scenes are great. As for the other thing... I'll tell him not to punch you in the face. I think he'll listen to me. It's too much of a nice face to risk."

He doesn't reply to that last one.

The movie is better for it, that's the thing, that Coulson can't deny that. It's a sacrifice he maybe should have thought of making before. The whole Barrymore family put together wouldn't have managed this, the conection, almost palpable, when one looks at Skye and Cal. Perhaps in a way Coulson had been trying to protect himself, avoiding having to work with Cal, having to realize the extent of the tragedy of how good a performer he must have been once, and how low he had fallen.

Surprisingly enough there is one day and _only one_ day when things get bad with Cal. After somehow getting lost around the old town, and showing up an hour late and in his costume (wrinkled and stained by whatever he has been doing in the meantime and Coulson prays there's some dry cleaning place here that can fix this disaster) and unable to remember his lines, and stumbling menacingly all over the location. Even Skye, who has been able to tame him for most of his days on the island, looks scared.

Coulson calls it a day, knowing they don't have any more days to spare.

"What? Leaving so soon?" Cal shouts, then turns around and starts looking at Coulson like he's just done something unforgivable.

Coulson gives May a pleading look and she does what she always does, fix the problem at hand. She takes Cal by the arm and takes him somewhere else to sober up.

"Sorry, that shouldn't have happened," he tells Skye when they both retreat into an American bar and they both order, on instinct, a soda, neither of them feeling like touching a drop of alcohol again.

She shakes her head. "Don't worry about that. I'm more worried about the script pages – will we have enough time?"

"We can cut some lines, maybe," Coulson wonders. "Include the information when we do the sequence on the set next week."

Skye furrows her brown in concentration; Coulson can tell she is working the problem, accessing the pages of script she has committed to memory and rearranging scenes. She's been such a help with the story, she's made such substancial contributions, that Coulson ponders a way to include her in the credits, even though he knows right now SHIELD is probably too bankrupt to pay the screenwriting union fees for her.

"He looked so angry at you when you called it off," she says.

"Well, he doesn't have a reputation for attacking directors for nothing..."

Coulson can't say he wasn't a bit scared back there. And Skye knew Cal has a temper but she is still a bit shaken. She looks around. The place is gaudy, habitated mostly by smiling casino guests. She and Coulson are regretting their decision to walk into the first place they saw open. The pianist looks bored, going through some old Harold Arlen song.

"When we get back to Los Angeles I'm going to take him to a clinic if he lets me," Skye says.

It's for her that Coulson feels pity right now, not the violent alcoholic washout of an actor they've just left behind. He touches Skye's shoulder.

"Skye, he might play your father in the movie but he's not your father. You don't owe him anything."

"He doesn't have anyone," Skye says, scrutinizing Coulson's face like she expects him to understand, because Coulson doesn't have anyone either. "If people who don't have anyone don't care about other people like that we'll never get anywhere."

"You can't save every person on this planet, Skye."

"Of course I can," she tells him, absolutely confident in her words.

The next morning Cal appears on location half an hour early, apologizing to the crew, profusely, all sober and docile. Coulson doesn't know if May threatened his life in any way last night, but that's not outside the plausible. The man follows Skye around, submissive, trying to patch things up – he's even bought some flowers. It's not enough, and Skye is not so easily swayed to forget what happened, but at least they have a quiet day of shooting.

 

+

 

"Okay, sweetheart, I hope you are ready for your whole world to be turned upside down."

Skye laughs and that's no way to get a romantic scene right.

"Hey," Hunter complains, wrapping his hands around Skye's waist, just like Skye told him to, when they were preparing the scene.

They have to reshoot the whole love scene she did with Ward in studio. In the end it's better – real wind and yes, sand getting in their eyes all the time, but that bit of realism makes everything else more sentimental and fitting, Skye thinks.

"Are we ready?" Coulson asks.

"Don't worry," Bobbi tells her, in confidence, but loud enough so her ex-husband hears it. "Just close your eyes and pretend you are kissing someone nicer."

"Hey," Hunter protests again.

But he grabs her firmly and he smirks, and something about his self-assuredness makes Skye relax.

"It's okay," he tells her, in a private voice, and winking. "You can close your eyes I'm pretend I'm someone you fancy."

It's a joke, she knows, because if one thing she has learned in the half day since Hunter arrived in Puerto Rico, cocky and ridiculous, is that he has a very high concept of himself. Skye can hardly belive this guys was married to the glamurous Bobbi Morse for years. And that they kept it so under wraps no fan magazine ever got wind of it after the divorce.

This is the third time this scene has brought Skye kisses, from three very different men. And Hunter might not be her ideal but when they finish shooting it occurs to her that she's very glad the last person she has kissed is not Ward. At least Hunter is playing for the good guys.

When they finish she has sand in her hair, which she thinks it's more romantic than the set fans blowing fake wind into her face. The wind here is hot, but real.

Against her better judgement she actually likes Lance Hunter. He adds a levity to her life on this island that she was missing – specially since Cal joined the crew and became the volite element everybody had to look out for. And so against her better judgement she eventually accepts his invitation to a beer in his bungalow – " _If he bothers you just give me a shout!_ " Bobbi says through the wall of Hunter's room. Skye likes the feeling of being out in a camp with everybody sleeping door to door with each other. Like they are on some kind of adventure together.

Skye knows she is in no danger of being romanced by Hunter. He considers her a kid, in a way, something of a little sister or a mascot. And he is either still hung up on his ex-wife or half in love with Hartley, Skye can't decide which one. She imagines this is what having an older brother must feel like, someone eternally annoying yet impossibly charming.

"For all the rum in this island," he says, "I still prefer a good, cold beer. Call me old-fashioned."

She accepts the beer, and is glad Hunter doesn't question when she leaves the door of the room open. It can easily be excused because of the heat, and Skye doesn't have to admit since the incident with Ward she is not that fond of getting in locked rooms with guys.

"So, Coulson tells me you sing, too," he says.

It's funny because you wouldn't think someone like Hunter and someone like Coulson would hit it off, but they do.

"Yes, I sing. I have a scene tomorrow but you'll be preparing for your scene with Trip, sorry."

What Skye has heard from Coulson and Hartley: Hunter is a free spirit – or maybe just lazy – and he never settled in Hollywood because he can't work with the studio system. He tried, for a while, did the whole Los Angeles scene, for Bobbi, but it didn't stick. For her either, both preferring the life of a exile.

"It was very good, though," Hunter is saying. "Our kiss, I mean."

"Ah, so that's what you wanted to have a drink with me afterwards, to ask me if you were a good kisser."

"I know I'm a good kisser," he replies. "I just wanted to extend an invitation so you could confess how good."

" _What is wrong with you?_ " comes Bobbi's voice booming from the next room.

"Classy," Skye comments.

Hunter clear his throat, "Don't mind her," and he slides to the end of the bed, away from Bobbi's earshot, or so he hopes.

"Speaking of old-fashioned," he says. "Are those rumors about Coulson true?"

"What rumors?" Skye asks.

"That he almost died because he went to a party and somebody stabbed him in his _manhood_."

"His man-" Skye bursts into laughter. "Where the hell did you hear that?"

"You know, the gossip columns."

Skye can barely stop laughing.

"I think you shouldn't believe what you read there, Hunter. Though, of course, I can't vouch for it _personally_."

"You can't?"

She arches an eyebrow.

"Of course. Coulson and me... it's not like that. Does anyone think it's like that?"

Hunter shrugs, not committing to an answer to that. "The way you look at each other, you just remind me of how I used to gaze at Bobbi. Before she decided to turn into a succubus, of course."

" _Hunter_!" comes Bobbi's commanding voice through the wall and Skye and Hunter collapse in laughter together.

 

+

 

Maybe it's the rush of the shooting, or the richness of the sights here, but he feels like a day in San Juan is like a week elsewhere. Like he's living some sort of parallel new life with the crew here, and it's never going to end.

"I've here before, in `45," Bobbi says as they take a tour of Old San Juan, catching up after her years of absence. "You should try the tostones, you'll like them."

Coulson wonders how Bobbi could have stayed until three o'clock last night swapping stories with Hartley – they were outside his door, on the veranda, he heard them – and then look _like this_ in the morning. But that was something Bobbi could always do.

He's not going to hide how grateful he is she's in their movie. Latest news he had from HQ were that either Christian Ward's campaign or the FBI's were hitting harder than they originally thought. " _We don't have as many friends in this city as we thought_ ," Hill had told him over the phone, but this is no surprise. Everyone in Hollywood is terrified of being blacklisted right now. Howard Hughes has just fired half of the RKO employees on that paranoia alone. If there is a rumor that lending SHIELD a hand could get you in trouble with the HUAC Coulson is not surprised about their current friendless state.

But Bobbi is a coup. Bless Hartley. Everyone wants Barbara Morse in their movie. Bobbi is not only an international sensation – she is also one of the smartest performers Coulson has ever met, able to smell a weak script a mile away. She wouldn't have accepted the job – not even to do Hartley a favor – if she didn't believe it was good enough for her.

Coulson never had the chance to direct her, though. They have known each other through the years, and perhaps because they have not worked together directly they are able to mantain honesty between them, in absence of ego. She knows him from before the war, and he knows her from before stardom, when she was just a bit player, hungry and raw, under SHIELD's contract.

"Hartley told me you had changed," Bobbi comments, throwing a sharp glance at him. He can see her studying him, measuring him.

They are walking through narrow streets, between houses built by the Spanish a hundred years ago. It's here that Coulson realizes he's going to miss this place.

"That's why you accepted this job?" he asks her, because he knows Bobbi is a pretty curious person. Then, just to provoke her: "Or is it Hunter?"

"It's _definitely_ not Hunter."

Coulson believes her.

"I don't really believe people can change," she says. "But that's just my experience."

"I didn't either," Coulson tells her. "Then someone stabbed me in the heart."

He knows that's not what changed him.

"It's that why you are protecting known enemies of America now."

_Known enemies of America_. Coulson chuckles. He's thinking Skye would probably love that epithet, would probably want it on her grave. He keeps smiling to himself about that.

"You really have changed, haven't you?" Bobbi says.

That night, after the evening shooting, Coulson stays up late, lingering outside his room, resting his hands on the railing and looking out at the ocean. It's too hot to sleep. There is noise coming from the other bungalows, and music from the bar across the street.

The disadvantage of sleeping everyone door to door is that there's no much privacy. Trip and Jemma think they are being discreet but they are really not – he's the director of this picture, of course he knows what's going on under his nose.

At least Hartley, Bobbi and Mack are on the town tonight, so there's some illusion of calm as Coulson walks down the line of houses to where it's quieter.

He stays like that for a bit, hoping for some breeze that never comes, realizing, after a long while, that he's not alone.

Skye, almost his identical position, leaning with her hands on the railing. She's wearing a man's shirt knotted at the end and slacks. She seems to be having the same problem with the heat as he is tonight. Under the moonlight her skin seems to glisten with sweat and she has tied her heair up for comfort.

That's the disadvantage of everybody sleeping next to each other in the small bungalows, that if you go out you might walk into your neighbor like this.

"Nice night," Coulson comments.

"Mmm-uh."

They don't say much for quite some time. They can hear people partying, and the low roaring of the Atlantic. Coulson experiences an absurd desire to go down to the beach right now.

"Trouble sleeping?" he asks Skye.

"There hasn't been much sleeping for me lately, no."

He nods. She puts a good front – he guesses she couldn't have survived her life otherwise – but he knows how much the thing with Ward has disturbed her. It must be the nights, when she's alone, the time of the day which gets a bit difficult even for her.

"You should get rest," he tells her. "It can affect your perfomance."

Skye smiles sadly at him.

"Sometimes I forget," she says, flattening her palms against the railing and swaying forward, the moonlight catching the back of her blue shirt.

"What?" Coulson asks.

"Sometimes I forget you're my director."

Coulson swallows. "I don't."

He turns away, walking back to his room. He wonders how Skye looks, as he leaves her there. Is she looking after him as he run away? Is she disappointed with how curt he's been?

There's no much sleeping for him that night either.

For a moment it feels like they are trapped in this island, and they are never getting home to their normal lives. For the first time the thought is oppressive. A lot more chances to run away from things, in his normal life. No row of bungalows, for one, in his real life. It's peaceful back there, in his West Hollywood house, where he can cut himself off if he wants to.

He tries not to think about it, Skye under the moonlight and next to the ocean again. He hates himself for it, thinking about it anyway.

He reminds himself why his rules are so important, why he can't live without them.

He knows he hasn't always been so clean-cut, which is why he has to try harder now, because now he knows why it matters so much, those renews do-no-harm vows since he met Skye, because he's a different man, a better man he hopes.

Audrey had been a rule-breaking of sorts. Because he had hired her to score one of his films. But she was already famous when he met her, at least in the contemporary music circles, she was known for her bold atonal compositions, but also her intimate chamber music, with a personal preference for the cello. She was an East Coast girl in a way Coulson didn't remember how to be an East Cost boy himself. It's not exactly that he misses her – though what he had with her was nice and he knows he took it for granted and he knows he should have fought for it but he's not sure he knows how to fight anymore – but he misses the feeling of it all, being in love with someone. 

He wasn't ashamed of what he felt back then, he didn't have to.

 

+

 

"You think I've ruined everything? The movie?"

"No, no," Simmons replies.

They have come to visit El Morro with Bobbi, May and Mack. Though Mack refuses to come down and see the soldier's quarters, claiming the whole place is haunted.

"It surprised us, that's all," Simmons adds. "We didn't know you were – inclined that way."

Skye smiles at Simmons' inability to say Communist out loud. It has taken to the end of their time in San Juan to talk about it, the lies Skye had told the crew. They have been too busy, no time to lick their wounds. No time to even consider the reality back home, the fact that Ward has probably won this war.

She doesn't want to think about going home yet. She prefers to think the adventure will go on for a bit longer, and she'll have time to tell Simmons and Fitz about her life and why she lied to them, time to hang out with Trip, time to let Cal atone for his behavior and play the dotting father, time to laugh with Hunter, time to try and figure Hartley and Bobbi out, time to spend in Mack's impromptu red room he fixed in his bathroom, looking at the pictures he has been taking.

Skye knows this is not a holiday, and it's not real life either, but she is not ready to face the music, to face whatever is waiting for her back in LA. The truth is: she's terrified of going to jail.

But it's been a weird couple of last days of shooting. Coulson has been acting all withdrawn, at least with her, barely speaking since their conversation on the veranda the other night. Skye wonders if she has done something wrong. They seemed to have grown closer and closer together these days.

"Is Coulson okay?" she asks May as they walk down the tunnels between galleries. "He seems a bit distant."

"Of course he's fine," May tells her. It might not be a lie, but Skye also knows May wouldn't tell her if there was a problem. "It's the idea of going home, facing all everything we will have to face. It's stressing."

Skye knows that's not it. Coulson is cutting her off for a reason.

 

 

+

 

 

On the last day of shooting in San Juan they all go to the same bar Hartley recommended that first night.

A celebration of sorts.

The picture is not finished, but almost. Coulson calculates eight more days of re-shooting back in Culver City, then whatever it takes to do the post.

He's never done something as insane as this – basically rewrite and rearrange a whole movie in a few days. Even during the war there was some sort of safety net, because everybody understood that war movies were, by nature, imperfect. But this? He worries the picture is too badly lit, too natural, too strange. Avant garde, Skye had teased him. Well, that doesn't sell tickets, and SHIELD needs warm bodies in the theater seats right now.

But he tries to push those worries away for tonight. Tonight is meant to be for the crew, not anyone else, not the investors, not the prospective audiences. He is not going to be the downer of the occassion. They have worked hard, gone above and beyond what was asked of them, they deserve a night off.

The place is packed, and it takes them a bit of wrangling to find a table for all eleven of them. Even the band seems to have problems to find an empty spot to play.

Everything goes, more or less, according to plan. He should have known bringing Hartley and Cal together wasn't a good idea. They try to drink each other under the table while Coulson tries to explain SHIELD is not paying for the rum.

"You haven't really changed at all," Hartley tells him, with a friendly yet powerful punch to the arm. "You were always the big worrier."

And he guesses that's true, he hasn't changed at all. Maybe it's time to agree with Bobbi, that people stay the same all their lives. But Bobbi is busy right now, trying to get the barman's attention with Simmons. It doesn't take her long, her blond hair almost an unfair advantage in this place.

"I'm more of a cocktail girl," she says when she comes back to the table. "But I adapt."

"Oh, Her Majesty lowers herself to drink cheap beer with her subjects," Hunter comments, just to be contrary.

"Hunter?" Hartley calls him on it. "Don't be yourself tonight."

"I'll drink to that," Mack mutters.

Hunter gets it. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry." He glances up at Bobbi. "I'm sorry."

It doesn't seem like anything can put a damper on Bobbi's mood though, because she just smiles at Hunter and offers her hand.

"Come on, you idiot, dance with me."

They disappear among the masses and everybody smiles knowingly at the scene.

Coulson seems to be missing something.

"Where's Skye?" he asks.

May makes a gesture towards the other end of the bar.

He sees Skye all right, she is talking to a group of local men, very animated, and he wonders what is going on. She's probably organizing a coup d'etat against the President of Puerto Rico, isn't she?

"I'll go get her," he says, standing up, even though nobody asked him to.

As he approaches he notices her dress. She and Trip had gone clothes-shopping in the afternoon and this must be what she picked up. Some very light, very short dress, in off-white, maybe pearl, her skin striking against it. It looks cheap and lovely.

"Skye. What are you doing?"

She turns around, leaving the group of men to talk to Coulson.

"These men work for the Caribe Hilton – the big hotel they are building here? I was asking about what kind of conditions they had, what is their union situation."

Coulson chuckles. He wasn't that far off, after all.

"Of course you were," he says. "Come on, let's dance."

"What? With you?"

"Yes, with me."

"What about your rules?"

"It's our last day in San Juan."

She looks like she wants to ask to press more, this sudden change of heart, but also like she fears he might change his mind if he does.

He wouldn't have had much in the way of an answer for her. Maybe he is just trying to distract her, trying to stop her from organizing a strike against the Hilton.

"Just dancing," he warns, as if it were necessary, when they reach the dance floor and he slips his arm around Skye's waist. The band is playing some Dorsey, Skye's hands hold on to his shoulders carefully.

"Of course," she agrees.

He wants to make some small talk, to dispel the solemnity of the moment, but he can't find anything to say. Skye is glancing up at him, a half-smirk on her lips. Coulson hasn't danced in a long time, and suddenly wonders at the technicality of it, does he even remember, but it soon comes back to him. He remembers the melody as well. When he relaxes so does Skye, slipping her arm further along his shoulder, resting her hand on the back of his neck.

He knows he hasn't really talked to her in a couple of days, has been keeping his distance. Well, this is the opposite of that.

"Not bad," Skye comments as Coulson tries some more elaborated moves.

"Despite your impossible expectations?"

She laughs, her hair brushing his cheek. Coulson, on his part, concentrates on the steps, rather than the shape of Skye's hipbone. The song is blissfully short.

When the music ends Skye smiles warmly at him, letting go of her grip on his shoulders in an instant.

"See? That wasn't that bad."

"No, I guess it wasn't."

"We should have danced together a lot sooner."

But he feels his throat dry and he is happy when they go back to the table and order another round for everybody.

"Never leave a foreign country drunk," Cal is commenting, "it's very confusing."

The crew smiles, a bit strained at the edges, the way Cal manages to make everybody nervous, specially since the incident. He must know it, too, because soon he disappears to strike a conversation with the barman.

There's more dancing, specially for Trip, who seems to be a hit with everyone in the crew, but saves the slowest tunes for Simmons. There's more drinking, and when May is finally fed up with the rum – which never agreed with her in the first place – she brings over a bottle of scotch. Coulson declines, mixing is not such a good idea. He meant for tonight to be a celebration, not a bacchanal.

Mack has brought his camera along and is snapping pictures of everybody; Coulson wonders if any of them will have cause to regret those photographs later.

As the evening ebbs away the rest of the crew, starting with Bobbi, Mack and Hunter, together, begin leaving the joint and at some point –and Coulson can't believe he wasn't paying a attention– the only ones left are him and Skye. He's not sure how they have outlasted Hartley or even Cal. But suddenly it's only locals, and couples, moving slowly when the band winds down a bit, choosing standards from way before the war, and the low light, like they are time-travelling but with a strange sense of order – the deeper they get into the night the further they go into the past. It's a dreamline moment, and the fact that the rest of the crew has left – mostly without goodbyes – makes him feel like he and Skye had been stranded somewhere unfamiliar.

He can tell Skye suspects it's time to leave, too, and he can tell she's sad about it.

"One last dance?" he proposes, fully knowing it's a mistake.

Skye arches an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

This time it's different, so unlike their first dance. 

For one the music is slower, painfully so; not so much dancing as swaying together. And the heat has been getting to them, their clothes stuck against their burning skins, they are both sticky with sweat. They smell like the end of the night, too, between the smoke and the alcohol inside this room. It's not entirely without its pleasure. Skye smells like seawater, too, like she's been by the ocean for a long time. Coulson grabs her tightly, one hand on the small of her back, where the fabric of her dress feels so thing, so damp, it's like he's touching naked skin. His fingers sprayed across her hip.

"I like this one," Skye says, turning her head towards the musicians.

Everybody liked this song at some point. It makes Coulson remember Europe in its dark and vibrant nights of battle. It makes him remember before Europe, the frivolous parties, the F. Scott Fitzgerald's story everybody thought they were living.

"Me too," he agrees, the sickly sweet romantic song. But the band is incomplete. "It's a pity there's no one here to sing."

Skye wraps her arms around his neck and presses herself against his body. Coulson freezes for a moment – until she slides her mouth against his ear and starts whispering the song lyrics.

" _And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_..." she sings, her voice a low thread full of emotion. " _And I seem to find the happiness I seek_..."

Third time you sing for me, Coulson thinks.

Her breath is hot against his neck, making him tremble with each word.

It goes on for a bit then she buries her face against the collar of Coulson's shirt, like she can bear to sing no more.

"You know, people say this tune is old-fashioned," Skye says, drawing back to look at his eyes. "They say it's old and sentimental. But I like it. I think it's lovely."

He stares back at her, knowing she expects him to understand. He just draws a deep breath and pulls Skye closer into his arms, closing his eyes like in the movies. Like in the movies. He could laugh at all this, really.

When the song ends the spell is broken and they both realize it's really time to go, Skye waiting for him outside the door, trying to catch some nonexistent breeze, while Coulson settles the tab and there goes all the money he had left. Most people seem to be stumbling out of the place, but he and Skye, they are sober enough.

Everything around them is so quiet as they walk to the bungalows, as if the island is holding its breath. The ocean, so blue and friendly in the day, is now a black presence around them, threatening to draw them in and drown them.

They reach their rooms, door to door.

Skye smiles shyly. "I guess this is good night."

She probably expects him to say something else but Coulson nods. She looks away, concentrated in opening her door.

She probably has been expecting him to say something else.

"Skye?" he calls out.

She turns around. "What?"

"You were right. I should have danced with you sooner."

He's not sure how what happens next comes to be.

He doesn't remember any time passing between Skye drawing a surprised breath at his words and him pressing his mouh to hers wildly, Skye grabbing at the hair on the back of his head and tugging him in against her kiss, and backing them both against the door, and opening her mouth under his, her mouth feral and endless.

Her skin is slippery and Coulson doesn't quite understand how she manages to open the door and maneuver them inside because he himself is in a fevered dream. Dripping love and desire. Still dancing. How he should have been dancing all this time. She tastes like rum, or maybe he does. Their kisses are barely kisses at this point, once they are inside her room, just a messy smashing of mouths together, wet and tender and rushed. Suddenly he falls and Skye catches him, and he realizes he's pressing her against the bed. Her body under his weight, there's nowhere for him to run. He's hard against against her, desire like a painful pulse running through him, straining him inside his clothes. Skye wraps one leg around his waist for a moment, desperate for friction herself, and Coulson is suddenly certain they are going to fuck each other through their clothes. Her voice in his ear lingers, from back in that bar, when she sang to him that she was in heaven.

He licks the underside of her chin, lapping at the salty taste of her skin, so rich and amazing.He can feel the hitched breath under his mouth as she tries to speak.

"Coulson, Coulson. Couls–on."

"What?" he comes up, though he would rather keep nuzzling Skye's jaw and tasting the sweat that pooled throughout the night in the hollow of her neck.

She holds his head and looks at him, licking her lips almost innocently and Coulson could just cry right now.

"I don't think you are going to mind, but I don't want any misunderstandings," she says. "I'm not a virgin."

He chuckles, dipping his head again to drop kisses on Skye's cheek, the corner of her lips.

"I have to tell you something too," he says, looking into her eyes. "I'm not a virgin, either."

He catches her laughter with his teeth, biting down on her bottom lip, the moment of humor and tenderness and quiet gone. She replies in kind, pulling at his hair and pushing his head down against his neck. They've wasted so much time that now they really don't have any left at all, Coulson thinks as he sucks at the spot over her collarbone, leaving a mark no doubt and he should worry about that, he should worry about rumors and make-up requirements.

He bunches her dress in his fist, sliding down on the bed to reach between her legs. Skye holds her breath as he takes off her underwear. He's drunk with the fever of it all – and slightly drunk-drunk with the rum and the dancing back at the bar – and it's all tongue and fingers and Skye writhing under his kisses and caresses, blindly grabbing at his hair and pushing him deeper and deeper. He loses track of time like that, buried in heat and a dream he has had since the first night he met her.

Skye comes against his mouth, bucking her hips under it, letting out a warm sob of contentment, her fingers dropping from his head. Coulson catches them in his hand as they fall to the matress, and kisses every fingertip, sucking the middle finger into his mouth, thirsty for more of her, as much as she can spare.

Skye tries to help him undress, once she recovers, but he is too impatient. He pulls the dress over Skye's head, seeing her breasts for the first time, the trail of sweat between them glistening in the half-darkness. But he doesn't have time to stare at her, he regrets. Unless he makes love to her _soon_ Skye is going to find out he's a useless old man, shameful and inadequate. He gets his pants and briefs out of the way, wrapping one hand around Skye's knee and pushing it to one side.

"Coulson," she breathes, "I–"

He cuts her off with a kiss, lining their bodies together. He can't hear what she has to say, it might just do him in.

He might not be a virgin but he admits this is a first of sorts. He hasn't been with anyone since Audrey and that had been so long ago and it feels like it belongs to another time and another man.

There's a tremendous sense of relief once he pushes inside her, and not just because it's been so long for him, he doesn't want to feel like a pervert in search of a fix – it's the tension, the tension that has been building inside him ever since he first saw Skye on that beach months ago, under that moonlight, shoeless and beautiful. How long has he wanted to make love to her? Such a long time, it seems. All his life. And even as he realizes this, he also realizes this is wrong. He realizes it will be some time before he cares about right and wrong again.

Skye finally manages to unbutton his shirt and slip it off him, running small greedy hands along his chest, but so lovingly. Taking his hand in hers she starts kissing the inside of his wrist, his palm, his fingers. He pushes his thumb into her mouth, anchoring her as he thrusts into her, hard and deep. Skye wraps her legs around his waist, sweet and helpful, clenching to make him moan.

And just like that, keeping him close, she comes again, quietly, whimpering. Coulson can feel everything. The alcohol, the heat, the yearning, they have only made him more aware of it all, the way Skye's legs fall from his back, limp, her heartbeat pounding under him, around his cock. He stares at her, fascinated, as she throws her head back on the pillow, her mouth open, her chest rising and rising, and then she lifts her head to look back at him, smile heavy with lust, those big eyes of hers tugging him in like a deathly undertow. His heart feels so full, his body so small.

Coulson pulls out of her then, not so far gone that he doesn't think about the risks of what they are doing, and Skye, not missing a beat, wraps her hand around him and he is done, she doesn't even have to move her fingers for him to be able to come, but she does, and Coulson didn't remember how all this felt. She strokes him lazily even after everything has ended, kissing sweat off the top of his shoulder.

They both collapse on the bed together and Skye laughs in his ear. "I told you you should have danced with me earlier."

Coulson nods, too affected to speak, and wraps his arms around Skye, pulling her against his chest as they both close their eyes and even their breathing. He thinks he feels Skye laying tiny kisses on his chest, his scar, as he falls asleep but later he is not able to tell if it really happened or if it was just one of the nice dreams he had afterwards.

 

+

 

"What are you doing?" Skye asks, narrowing her eyes to make Coulson's figure in the darkness.

He's sitting on the wicker chair by the bed, resting so still and that for a moment she thinks he might just be asleep.

Skye turns on the little night light. He's dressed again, absurdly. He has even put on his shoes again. She doesn't understand.

"What time is it? What's wrong?"

"I didn't want to wake you," he says. "And I didn't want to just leave without an explanation."

She groans, missing the warmth of someone in bed with her. "Why didn't you keep sleeping here?"

"It didn't feel right."

Skye can tell by the tone of his voice that something is incredibly wrong. Her body feels wonderfully sore, just tingling at the proximity of her recent lover, but her head wakes up and catches up to the dark mood of the scene.

"Why would you leave without an explanation?" she asks him.

He stays quiet for a long, long time. Like he is waiting for the right words to come to him and he can't rush them.

"You never asked why I have my rules," he says.

"What?"

"I used to have this partner... My lover," he says, his voice flat. "This was in the early thirties, when we had made a couple of movies together. I was still an actor. It was getting pretty serious and she felt like she needed to explain some things about herself, about her career. It was then when I first learned about the summons."

Skye tries to concentrate, tries to make out every nuance of Coulson's expression, even in the darkness. She feels this is important. "The _summons_?"

"I didn't know what that was. I had only worked for Fury, I didn't know how other studios did things. When she started talking I didn't understand what she was telling me. See, when an actress, specially if she doesn't have much experience, is considered for a role in a movie first she receives the summons from the male star, to see if they are a good fit. If he approves of the choice then she receives the summons from the chief producer, or the studio owner. If he's agreeable then she has to convince the director. Depending on how big the movie is sometimes an actress can get summons from the excutive producers. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah. I do."

Skye knows what summons are, even if she didn't know the word. She has a bad feeling about what Coulson is getting at.

"I didn't, at first, when my girlfriend explained it to me," he goes on. "I must have been a dumb fuck in those days because I had no idea why she was telling me all this. Then she told me she had been afraid I'd be angry with her if I knew, that I'd consider her a loose woman, a slut. Well, I got angry when I finally understood, but not at her."

Skye sits up in bed, shifting to get close to him. Maybe if she touches he'll drop all this. But she's afraid to. She draws her knees under her chin.

"Coulson, I'm not stupid, I know what you are doing right now, but tonight wasn't like that."

For fuck's sake, Skye wants to say, she wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him. They had made love last night. This wasn't as if Daryl Zanuck had asked her to come into his office to suck his cock. There's a reason why she never tried to land a job at Fox. Coulson is not those men, that's the whole point. He's just having some sort pf breakdown, a panic attack.

"You don't understand," he presses. "Something changed for me the night I learned about the summons. I thought I knew how the world worked. How horrible it could get. But I had no idea."

Skye gets a bit angry at that. All this self-pity, all these excuses (he's trying to shut her out because he's scared, the explanation is so simple she almost laughs at him and she guesses he really is like any other man), and all she can think about is his lover in the thirties and how Coulson is using her story to hide from Skye.

"It was your girlfriend having to pay that price of that world, not you. It wasn't about you, Coulson."

"No, it wasn't," he agrees. "That's why I knew I couldn't – I couldn't add to it. That's why I can't be a director who sleeps with his actresses."

"You've already slept with your actress," she points out.

He winces.

Skye thinks she understands Coulson's old girlfriend now. What she was afraid of was that he'd make her feel like Skye feels right now.

"I understand all that," Skye tells him. "Why you have your rules. They are good rules. But this is not healthy. Trying to make this – _us_ – something it's not. We didn't break your rules. We–"

"Skye."

"We _didn't_. This is different."

"I bet a lot of actresses thought that of their summons. I bet a lot of directors say that, even believe it. _I_ believe it."

She grits her teeth. She guesses hitting him wouldn't fix anything, but the temptation is almost overwhelming.

" _Coulson_ , listen to me, this is not like that."

"But it is."

"I already got the job."

"There can be summons to keep your job, too."

"The movie is almost finished."

"But I'm still the one who put you here," Coulson tells her.

And you're the one who's thrown his career away to protect me, Skye thinks. But she is not sure that would help or hurt her case. Coulson might think what she's feeling is gratitude. It's almost ironic, that Phil Coulson trusts her, completely, in everything, _except_ in this.

"I didn't mind people talking about us like that, the gossip columnists, the other actors, " he says. "Because I knew the rumors weren't true. Because I knew I would never do that to you."

"But I know you wouldn't take advantage of –"

"How can you know that? How can _I_ know that?"

"Because I _wanted_ this."

He stands from the chair and goes to sit by Skye's side, on the bed. She thinks this is a good sign. It's not.

Coulson lifts his fingers to her cheek, her hair, barely touching before he drops his hand. He is looking at Skye in a horrible way – like this is the worst thing that has ever happened to him. She doesn't want that. She wants to be the best thing that's ever happened to him. Because she has been feeling like he's the best thing that's ever happened to her, all this time.

"How can you know that?" he mutters. "How can I know that? Skye..."

Hours ago she had felt so loved in his arms. Now it's all so cold. He's taining the memory of it.

She knows herself. She's not some naive starlet impressed by the big shot director. And she is offended that Coulson thinks she could be. Again, hitting him might just be the best course of action here.

"I know what I feel," she tells him. "And you do too." He shakes his head. "Please don't do this, Coulson."

She can't tell him he's breaking his heart. She doesn't have the guts to tell him she's fallen in love.

"I'm sorry," he says, though he's probably apologizing for something else. Something she never wanted him to apologize for.

"You're just telling me that being with me makes you feel dirty and horrible."

"No, no," he shakes his head. " _Never_."

"Please, Coulson, just stop saying stupid things and kiss me."

For a moment she thinks he's just going to do that, their face so close together she can feel the heat of his breath on her lips. She remembers their first kiss, the fake one that wasn't really fake at all, was it? She remembers their real first kiss, hours ago, just outside this room.

"I'll do whatever you want," he tells her, almost kissing her, but the difference matters.

Skye knows what Coulson wants – he wants to be brave enough to know he is a good man. But he can't. She loves a guy who is so used to lying down on the canvas that he has forgotten how to fight. And it doesn't matter that she never makes another movie with him, or that she never makes another movie, that they retire and buy a house on the suburbs, because to him she will always be the actress he fucked while they were making a picture together, like he was just like the rest of directors in Hollywood. It's a goddamn lie, of course. Coulson doesn't realize Hollywood has fucked them both. Skye should have known that it wasn't enough, having found a good man in this business, having found a man she loves, it was never going to be enough. The world has made sure to ruin that, a world where things like summons are something familiar and accepted, nothing alarming. 

"I'll do whatever you want," Skye tells him.

It was better when she just wanted to hit him in the head with something heavy. She could be angry at him for being weak, but she loves him even through this stupid choice of his, and she worries about his heart.

"You're making a mistake," she reproaches him. "You'll regret this."

He gives her a weary smile. "Not the first time I hear that in this trip," he says. "But I think this one is true."

She has his hand in hers suddenly and she looks at their fingers entwined as she clutches, tightly. She suddenly remembers how it felt, having him inside her, last night. 

"So... what's the plan now?" she asks. In a weird way, they are still partners. In a weird way even breaking-up is something to do together, something to support the other through. "And don't worry, you know I can keep a secret."

"I just – can we do this? We'll go back to Los Angeles tomorrow and we will finish our movie. And I will go back to being just your director, and you will go back to being just my leading lady, bold and talented. We'll fight the Committee together, if it comes to that. We'll go on as we have before. And you will forget tonight ever happened."

He is pleading with him, his voice begging her now. Skye doesn't think she can say no to him, she has always had a problem with that.

She nods, biting back both anger and tears. Fuck him, he's a coward. He is a coward, but it'll be easier if he were _just_ a coward.

"Okay. If that's what you want. I'll do what you want," she repeats. Coulson looks relieved, and sadder than before. "Except that last part. I'm never going to forget tonight."

He stands up from the bed, but Skye still can't let go of his hand, still holding on to it, tuggig at him, holding on to the hope that he's not the idiot he's proved himself to be just now.

Coulson turns her hand in his and drops his head to kiss her palm. Skye feels his trembling lips pressed to her fate line.

Skye didn't cry in front of him when he told her her parents were dead. And she didn't cry in front of him after Ward betrayed her. But right now she is glad the little bedside lamp is merely a dim light she can hide in, and she is glad Coulson walks out of her room so quickly.

She still has a few hours left to prepare her suitcase before they leave for the airport.


	9. Tender Comrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Moon, moon, rise in the sky to be a reminder of comfort and the hour when I was brave.”_  
>  By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept by Elizabeth Smart.
> 
> _"It must have been moonglow_  
>  _That led me straight to you._ "  
> Moonglow, lyrics by Eddie DeLange

"What do you mean pull the movie?"

"What do you think it means?" Fury says, like Coulson is very stupid. "Pull the movie. No one wants to touch your picture."

Sure, Coulson thinks, now it's _my_ picture.

"Really? They have that power?"

"And then some," Fury replies, sitting in Coulson's chair with his thick coat on – he always does that, never take off his coat to talk to you, like he is always between places. And he normally is. No one in this planet has known Coulson for so long as Fury, yet the total amount of time they have spent together would surprise most.

Today, in Coulson's office, Fury looks like he always does, like a man who enjoys a good fight with the world. Maybe he's even enjoying this. And well, he gets it; it's like Skye always says, there's some relief in knowing, without a doubt, that you are on the side of good. Even if you lose, even if you get KO'd, you will always have that. But they trade in a world of little certainties – Hollywood always keeps its secrets and Hollywood is always ambiguous and often the right thing to do is not that clear. Is this a blessing in disguise? All the big cinema chains refusing to show their little, sentimental picture. It's a sign they must have done something good.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself, soldier," Fury says.

He only calls him soldier when he is worried about him. And that only has happened in a couple of occassions. Rather recently, as he was recovering from a wound that should have killed him, that's the last time Coulson heard Fury talk to him like that, when the doctors weren't sure they could save him. Fury had ordered to hold on, because he had work to do.

"The other studios are in on this," Fury goes on.

"How so?"

"I come from a reunion with the Warners, with Zanuck, with that lunatic Hughes, the whole High Council. They have offered me half a million dollars for the negative."

"To do what with it?"

"To burn it."

Coulson can hardly believe that. His little sentimental picture, surely it can't arise such hatred. Maybe it's the sentiment behind it. The film itself is harmless, but with all its performers and crew blacklisted as soon as their plane touched down from San Juan, allowing it a commercial run would be like condoning the inclinations of those who made it. Yeah, he gets it. In itself "I'll See You In San Juan" is nothing – in context it's probably the most dangerous film of 1948. It must remain in the can.

And half a million is a lot of money. Specially compared to the nothing they are going to get if the film never sees the light of day. With all the cuts it ended up costing a little under a million dollars, plus the compensation to Ward for breaking his contract. If Fury accepts the other studios' offer SHIELD wouldn't have had that much money on it, in the end.

Still, he is heartbroken at the idea that his film would be burnt to ashes – or to the value of its recycled chemical components. They all have worked too damn hard, believed too much in what they were doing. This can't be how it all ends.

In the month since they left Puerto Rico they have been killing themselves to finish the film for a summer release. They shot the pages left in set, and they managed to do the post-production in a record time. The last few weeks have been particularly tough on Skye – she has been walking on eggshells, trying to be so careful and respectful around Coulson, so hardworking. Imagine that, your director takes advantage of you and not only do you still have to work with him, you do your damnest to make sure the movie is a hit. And all for what? So that a bunch of fascists can sequester the negative and burn it? Coulson's heart would break for her.

And yet, he can't tell Fury to fight for such a small cause, he can't order Fury to tell those studio heads to take their half million and shove it up their asses.

"Boss... If you think that's what SHIELD should do, destroy the picture, I won't resent you for it."

" _Really_ , Coulson? You think I would make that call?"

"Not in a million years," Coulson replies promptly. "But I needed to say that, anyway."

Fury stares him down. He knows that gaze. He's studying him.

"It's a damn fine movie, Phil," he tells him.

He's a bit surprised by that. And a bit surprised that, pleased as he is Fury thinks the film is good, it doesn't mean the whole world to him, like it used to, gaining the man's approval. It's probably better this way, healthier. It only took Coulson thirty years.

"Thank you," he says, simply, feeling that for the first time in thirty years he gets the man in front of him.

" _I won't resent you for it_?" Fury repeats, shaking his head in admonishment.

"And what will you do then?"

Fury leans back on the chair, lacing his fingers together.

"Organize a big premiere, of course."

"Excuse me?"

"If no theater wants to show our picture we'll rent Grauman's for the night. We'll buy a theater if we have to. Or build one, I don't care. But nothing will stop this movie from having its premiere, even if that's the only time it gets shown."

Yes, Coulson thinks, this is a very Fury solution. It has both flair and defiance.

"Thank you, sir."

"Big neon letters, I want those, you understand?"

Coulson nods.

Then, more seriously: "You've taken good care of our team these past months."

He admits he has been a bit worried that Fury might think he didn't care about his authority – because not once during the ordeal in Puerto Rico did Coulson asked for permission from HQ, he just asked for help.

"You said it yourself once, we take care of our own."

Fury glances up at him. If Coulson didn't know better he'd say he's a little bit impressed with him. Well, _that_ only took thirty years.

"And even though you took that decision unilaterally, even when you knew the risks, the girl's one of our own," Fury adds.

He didn't mean to discuss that with Fury. He has enough on his plate, with people he actually knows. 

"If Victoria Hand got eighteen months... Skye would at least get five years," Coulson says.

"It's just contempt of Congress."

Coulson smirks. He wishes he could introduce the two of them. Fury would understand then.

"No, actually, I think they'd go for treason in her case. Or espionage."

"You want us to help her run?"

Coulson smiles, sadly this time. "She wouldn't."

"We have a nice European HQ in Paris, we are building something new there, a new SHIELD. And this goes for you too, Phil. I think you'd be the man to run it."

"So it's come to that," Coulson realizes, because this doesn't sound like Fury at all. He shoots straighter than this. 

"Ward wasn't the only mole," Fury says. "His brother is making a bid for a new studio. The rest of heads don't want us as competition, but they don't mind him."

Skye had warned him. This city wants SHIELD burnt to the ground, so it can do whatever it wants with the unions. Coulson had thought it was just her paranoia, back then, her insistence it was all about the unions. She was right about another thing: naivety can be a crime, in men like Coulson.

"So. Paris. What do you say?" his boss insists.

"I'll think about it."

Fury stands up.

"I have to go back to Washington now. But Maria will take care of the preparations. Remember, Coulson, I want it extravagant and glossy."

"Yes, sir."

"A damn fine movie," he repeats as he walks out of the office.

 

+

 

"I'm sorry it couldn't be the Grauman's," Coulson is telling her, as they get ready to get out of the car and onto the red carpet. 

Skye blinks at him. "You're joking. This is amazing."

It doesn't even matter than this is possibly the first and only time the audience is ever going to see her picture. Or at least it doesn't matter tonight. Tonight she wants to live the fake, manufactured Hollywood dream. The one promised at the beginning of this. She wants to wear the dress and enjoy the attention and mingle with beautiful people and walk under the spotlights, see her name in neon. If tomorrow the feds come for her, if tomorrow she has to face the grim question of _Are you now or have you ever been...?_ and end up in a cold cell, then at least she wants the memory of tonight. She wants it to be perfect.

And SHIELD has worked to make it perfect for her. Spared no expense. 

Coulson even picked her up in a limousine – which caused no small commotion among her neigbors, now that she has left SHIELD's West Hollywood flat (she couldn't accept them paying for rent with money they didn't have) and gone back to humbler quarters. Miss Hill had arranged everything, even for Skye to borrow some jewelry fitting for the occassion.

As their car stops in front of the theater, "Skye" first – no surname, no family – under the title, above even Barbara Morse, Coulson produces a another gift for her.

"You brought me flowers?" Skye says, so touched at the sight of the white roses she thinks she might cry. But no, no crying in front of Coulson. She's been doing fine for over a month, giving him the space he needs, grateful that he hasn't pulled away completely after San Juan.

"I even went to buy them myself this time," he informs her.

How can Coulson look at her like that and then refuse to love her? She touches the roses, like they can offer some answer.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

The whole thing is very much like one usually sees in the news items. Walk the red carpet, wave to fans, answer the press' questions. Everyone looks handsome and radiant.

The journalists' questions, of course, have more to do with political matters than with the content of the film itself. Skye doesn't even mind. She'll answer them. She doesn't have anything else to hide.

"Let's all try not to incriminate ourselves if we can, okay?" Hunter says to the group, looking nervous.

"It's just because of the film," Bobbi explains it to Skye. "He gets like this after every picture. He gets scared he isn't any good."

"Hey," Hunter whines and the whole group laughs, a bit nervously, happy to share a private joke. Even Hunter looks handsome tonight, in his ridiculous white tux like he was Rick Blaine.

She sees Mack and Fitz, also in elegant attire, but holding the cans of cellulloid under their arms. There was a nasty rumor someone paid by the feds was going to try and steal the film from the lab and Mack has been guarding it personally for days. If that doesn't sound like your typical Hollywood ending then it's just a small detail.

There are some absences; Hartley has gone back East to be near Victoria, Maria Hill is helping Fury in legal battles with the investors, Cal is still down in Norwalk recovering in a private clinic. But they are here in spirit, it's a night for them as well. 

When the crew are ushered into the auditorium they take the first row, and Skye sits besides Coulson without thinking.

"Good luck," he whispers in her ear as the lights go down.

Skye wonders if he'll take her hand, this time, but he doesn't.

_Now a very special previews_ the title card says. That's true all right.

Everyone around them gives off a solemn vibe. This is not so much a premiere as it is a funeral. And they all know it. It's part of the appeal, why all the seats are sold.

Skye thinks it's a shame. It's a good movie.

It's a bit embarrassing seeing herself on the big screen like that. Skye hadn't counted on that. She finds that her delivery is too stilted, and the songs should have been better sung.

The autobiography side of the movie unsettles her a bit. Seeing scenes she shot before knowing about Ward, the scenes shot in San Juan, and the scenes shot when they came back to California, after her night with Coulson. She looks at her own face knowing how she was feeling in those days and has the feeling she is naked up there, and the audience can tell as well.

Once she can get past that, though, she is able to immerse herself in the story. There is a rawness to it, because they ended up shooting so fast, with so little money to spare. It's not saying anything important – just the story of a girl at a crossroads in her life. Skye's favorite scene – they didn't cut it after all – is when a group of Puerto Rican independentists are running from the police and her character hides them in her home, taking care of the wounds with the skills she learned in the war. It's pretty provocative stuff but it's not like they can blacklist her _twice_. In the movies, though, everything works out for the better. People say in the movies the good guys always win. That's a lie, if you ask Skye, she's seen the villains of the piece win plenty of times.

The audience seem to like it. Even if it's just made up of the morbid and the curious, waiting to see if it's a flop, drawn by the idea that no one else will be able to see it again. In the end they all clap and it sounds genuine. Coulson stands up and takes her hand, encouraging to walk to the middle of the aisle and take a bow. It's not exactly the kind of fairytale Hollywood has in mind but she'll take it.

Then, not having any other theater willing to play a blacklisted movie, "I'll See You In San Juan" is already on its way to become victim to oblivion, a kind of film purgatory.

But not just yet. Right now Skye is busy receiving hugs from her team and compliments from strangers. People coming from the cheap seats comment some of the scenes among themselves, excitedly. It's like the best nights at the Tide, but amplified. Skye understands why anyone would want to work this hard over and over for some silly melodrama.

"They are right," Coulson tells her, out in the lobby, he still holds her hand for a moment longer. "It's a great achievement."

"Yeah, even though it won't bring in any more job offers," she says. She notices how Coulson's face falls. "It's not self-pity. I have plenty of prospects. I'll probably should look into getting my old job, back at the Tide."

Coulson shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, let's wait and see."

"What do you mean?"

"Who knows? Maybe this whole HUAC thing will blow over," he says. She has alway liked his optimistic streak. "Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe SHIELD will get funds elsewhere. In any case, if they let me direct another film..."

"What?"

She doesn't know what he is getting at. Coulson looks to the floor for a moment.

"You should be in it, that's all."

Skye blinks at him, slowly.

"You mean you would like me to make another movie with you?" she asks.

Everything seems possible in a magic-soaking night like this, she feels. Even this.

"Of course," he says, frowning, like she just made a really stupid question.

For all his politeness during the last month of shooting, for all his support tonight, Skye hasn't imagined Coulson would want to work with her again, not after what happened in San Juan.

She stares at him.

"Coulson..."

He seems to hold his breath as well.

"What?"

Skye is not sure how to start answering that, or if there really is something to say at all. It might just be another Hollywood illusion, the rush of a premiere night, the first and probably last of her life. She might be just drunk on all of this. But he looks so handsome in his tux and he is gazing at her so sweetly. Maybe he's changed his mind, maybe he wants to – 

Whatever it is they are on the verge of they get interrupted when a beautiful woman in a long, red dress approaches them. Maybe she has seen the movie and wants to congratulate her – everything _is_ possible tonight, Skye thinks, drunk with excitement – but she addresses Coulson directly.

"Hello, Phil," she says in an intimate voice.

Coulson turns around, seems shock to see the woman, but pleased to see her, too.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I wasn't going to miss this premiere. I heard it was pretty special."

Skye watches as Coulson's face becomes soft with gratitude.

"Thanks. I know how risky it is – for anyone – coming here."

The woman smiles a familiar smile at him.

"Congratulations, Phil. It's a great movie. Possibly your best."

He lets out a laugh. This is obviously something intimate. Skye makes a gesture to leave them alone.

"Skye..." he calls out. "This is Audrey Nathan."

Ah, Skye thinks, that explains it all. She knows who she is, of course. Even before he met Coulson she knew who Audrey Nathan was, and more importantly, who she was to Coulson, the whole saga of their engagement.

"Hi," Skye says, awkwardly, "I love your scores."

"Thank you. Wonderful performance."

"Uh – thanks."

"I didn't know you were in Los Angeles," Coulson says, staring at Miss Nathan in fascination.

"I wasn't," she replies.

Coulson nods in understanding. "Who called you?"

"Maria."

Coulson nods again.

Skye knows how to take a cue – she didn't need to get into the movie business to learn that. She touches the back of her neck.

"I should get back to my crew," she says, pointing towards Simmons and the rest.

"I really didn't mean to interrupt," Miss Nathan says.

"You aren't."

"Skye..." Coulson holds out his hand, like he wants to stop her from leaving.

"No, it's okay, really," she says, looking at him but not exactly in the eye. "We're probably going out somewhere to celebrate, anyway. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Nathan."

" _Audrey_ , please," the woman says. Skye nods, smiling at her. "Likewise."

She turns around, scanning the room for a friendly face she can make a beeline for, walking away without another glance at Coulson. A girl has her pride, after all. She has to hang on to that.

Just another Hollywood illusion, then.

 

+

 

"I've always loved this bar," Audrey says, spreading her arms over the white counter like she's hugging an old friend.

"I agree, it's one of this place's finest features," he says, going around to pour a couple of drinks. He remembers Audrey likes brandy, and expensive. He fishes a bottle from way back. "I'm selling the house so if you want to make me an offer..."

"You're selling the house? _No_. Why?"

"I spent the last dime I had in the movie. And I don't supposed I'm likely to get many job offers in the future."

"And SHIELD?"

This was a kind of last hooray for SHIELD too, at least this side of the Atlantic. But Coulson't can't still accept that himself, much less tell someone else.

He shrugs. "Suspended operations until further notice. No paychecks."

"What are you going to do?"

He wonders if he should tell her. He's become too used to paranoia. Audrey is here, after all, when it could ruin her career. She took that risk.

"We don't know. We are considering opening a studio somewhere in Europe," he says. "If we don't all end up in jail, that is."

Audrey makes a worried face. He didn't use to worry her. Maybe he should have, maybe they'd still be together if he had. While they were lovers Coulson had this absurd idea that it was better if he just shared the good things, the laughter, the parties and the expensive clothes. That's what love was, wasn't it? Just the good parts. The bad parts you can keep to yourself. 

Audrey looks around the place, probably trying to determine if much has changed since she last was here. Coulson thinks back, ashamed, on the morning she left. He's glad to have another chance to talk to Audrey, in friendly terms. She looks great as always, but tired. Maybe it's the trip West. Maybe she's working too much with the responsibility of a whole orchestra on her shoulders.

"This is a bit like the old times," she comments. "A drink at your place after a premiere of one of your movies. How many times have we done this?"

"Yes, like the old times. It's only fitting you came to the premiere of the last movie I'm ever likely to direct."

She tilts her head. "When did you get so dramatic?"

"Only very recently."

She laughs. 

He has missed that sound. He looks at her and it's almost like seeing a stranger, here in his living room, drinking his brandy. Except he is the one who is a stranger.

"Congratulations on your engagement, by the way," he tells her.

And he means it. While his relationship with Audrey did not end up in the best of terms he discovers he has nothing but good wishes for her future. He's not an entirely awful person.

"So you're up to date on that?"

"Of course. I try to keep up with the news in the exciting world of classical music."

That's the kind of comment that would have earned him an eyeroll once upon at time. Now Audrey just smiles warmly. She seems to have loosened up like that. Or maybe she doesn't care about his opinion anymore.

"Who is he?" Coulson asks.

"A violinist."

"A _violinist_? You hate violinists. You say they're all ego."

Audrey shrugs, obviously pleased with how things turned out anyway, ego or not.

"I'm really happy for you," Coulson adds.

She leans back on the bar, studying him. "You really mean that."

"Of course. Why wouldn't I mean that?"

She shakes her head slightly. 

"And you? Do you have someone in your life?"

Coulson hesitates for a moment.

"No, I don't."

"That's very unusual for you," Audrey comments.

He guesses it is. It's not like he is a fiend or anything, but he doesn't like being alone for too long. This is the longest he's gone without something serious. How long was it since Audrey left? A year? Year and a half? Enough time has passed that they can look at each other like this, without resentment, and with only a little sadness.

"You know I can be a bit intransigent – that's why things didn't work out between us."

He clearly means it as a joke, because they were both pretty picky people when they met, and proud of it, but Audrey seems to take the comment seriously.

"I thought things didn't work out because I couldn't take care of you when you got hurt," she says.

Coulson leaves his drink on the bar and takes a step towards her.

"It's that what you believe I would think?" he asks, surprised at the implication. "That I would resent you for that? I told you then, I was fine with all that. You were busy with your tour, I understood. And I never expected you to be my nurse. You know we had problems before I got stabbed."

"Yes," she admits, sipping from her brandy. "But neither of us wanted to see it. And I wonder sometimes, if I had done more..."

"No," he cuts her. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He always admired that about Audrey, that she was very level-headed yet she committed herself to her work completely.

"I guess I wasn't very honest with you, when we were together," he tells her. 

Maybe he was, to the extent he understood honesty, closeness, then. He simply didn't know it could be different. He didn't know she deserved better. Or if not better, then at least more.

"What do you mean, Phil?"

"We had a good thing and I blew it," he says. This is some kind of revelation for him, only prompted by the fact that he has recently blown an even greater chance at happiness. 

"Probably," she agrees. "But I was there, too."

"You're a very generous person, Audrey."

She sighs dramatically. "Yes, I know. It's a curse."

He smiles, wrapping his fingers around her shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze.

"I was playing a part with you, and I never apologized," he tells her. He's glad she's found someone, though. He would probably feel too guilty otherwise. He wonders if, were she free, he'd make the mistake of asking her if they can try again, knowing fully well he's deeply in love with someone else. "I know I'm not that guy. But I really wanted to be. Except – not anymore."

She fixes him one her sharp glances. He hasn't exactly missed those.

"And who do you want to be now, Phil?"

Coulson knows the answer, of course. But it's all hopeless now.

He's about to say some platitude, some white lie, when the phone in the living room rings.

"Excuse me."

If he universe is trying to tell him something it's not being very subtle about it, Coulson thinks, when he hears Skye's voice at the other end of the line. But he soons forgets about that idea, because she sounds like she's in trouble.

He doesn't exactly get what she is trying to tell him, but she mentions Ward, and she sounds scared while she insists everything is all right and that she doesn't want to bother him. Bother him?

"Just stay in your room," he tells her. "I'll be there in half an hour."

He hangs up and looks around for his coat.

"Something wrong?" Audrey asks.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," he tells her. She looks wrong-footed, not knowing how to place her glass back on the bar. "It's okay, take your time. Just close the door when you leave. I'm really sorry."

"Phil..." she calls out.

He comes back to her side and holds her hand for a moment. A bit like the old times.

"I'm really happy to see you," he tells her and practically runs for the door.

 

+

 

She is not expecting to see Ward ever again in her life.

Among other things because she didn't think he'd find her new place, but of course Ward must have his ways.

She didn't go out to celebrate with the rest, in the end. Didn't feel like it. Simmons had looked at her with widened, worried eyes, and Trip had looked at her like he knew she was lying, when Skye insisted she was fine, just tired from all the excitement. She gave them her best smile, trying for a natural peformance, because it's her fault most of their careers are ruined, she didn't want to ruin their night as well. They told her where they were going, anyway, in case she changed her mind; not Ciro's or the Mogambo, or anywhere that classy, since those places didn't want Commie scum and their blacklisted friends inside their doors anymore.

Now she wishes she had gone out with everybody, wherever. Because pretending to be cheerful is still a better plan that walking up four flights of stairs only to find Grant Ward waiting outside her door. For a moment she considers turning around and going back to the street but what's the point, Ward has already seen her.

"What are you doing here?" Skye asks, fishing for her keys in her bag. " _Leave_."

Ward steps away – not further away enough for her taste – to let her unlock the door.

"I hear you had a big premiere tonight," he says, gesturing towards the bucket of white roses she's still holding in her hand.

She tries to keep her back turned against him, not look at his face.

"Well, yeah, thanks to you that's probably the only night this picture is ever going to get," she comments.

"You have to believe me. I didn't mean to hurt you personally."

The door unlocks. Thank god.

" _Personally_?" she snorts, pushing past him and into her flat. "Go away, Ward. I'm not in the mood for your excuses."

"Wait," he says, when she tries to close the door on him. He doesn't let her, wrapping his hand around the door and pusing one foot inside the apartment.

Skye's chest suddenly starts pounding with a sense of threat.

What is he going to do with her? He's so tall. Why is he so tall?

But for now he just hands her a manila envelope.

"What is this?" she asks, flipping through the pictures inside. It's her in all of them. Surveillance shots of her at Party meetings, at private reunions, meeting Miles for dinner. It's just creepy.

"These are the photographs that could get you in trouble," Ward says.

"Could?"

"I bought them. From Raina," he says. "I bought her silence, too."

Oh, god, is he joking?

"Oh, thank you, that's so nice of you," she mocks him.

"You don't understand, you don't have to worry about this anymore, it's gone away, I made it go away," he says. He sounds disgustingly pleased with himself about that. "And there's more."

"What do you mean?"

"Christian is buying a film studio out of Culver, he's having John Garrett take the wheel, Chief of Production."

That makes sense.

"And let me guess, there's a job for you too?" she says. Ward doesn't reply, and that's answer enough. "Well, I'm glad you and your brother are in such good terms after all."

She can see him get angry for a moment, his jaw in tension. It's only a second and she should not be frightened of a little petty man like Grant Ward, goddamnit. So she squares her jaw too and she takes a step towards him, trying to intimidate him out of blocking her damn door.

"There can be a job for you too," Ward says, finally.

Skye widens her eyes at him. 

"I can't believe you just said that to me," she says. "You ruined the lives of people I care about. And you honestly thought I was going to take your offer tonight? And what, be ever so grateful for it? What _did_ you expect in return?"

"No, it's not– I wasn't expecting –" he stutters. "I don't expect anything in return. But this proves I wasn't lying. When I said my feelings were real."

Skye laughs. Not sure if at Ward or herself. Probably both.

"SHIELD is done for," he says, a bit angered by her reaction. "They don't have any money. And money is what will keep you out of the courts."

Of that Skye has no doubt. Money always wins the day, Communist or patriot, you can always buy your way out of trouble. Ward's implication being, of course, he has it. That kind of money. What was he expecting, really? That Skye's situation would be so dire that she would beg for protection? He really never knew her, after all.

"You know what, Ward? I don't care," she says, too tired to even worry about the consequences. "Do whatever you want with my photographs. In fact, I'll save you the time and give myself up to the FBI."

"That's not what I want."

"But I don't give a damn about what you want," she tells him. "I just want you out of my life for good. And I will break your face if you take one more step inside my house."

"Please, Skye, don't be foolish. Take the offer."

" _Never_."

Ward sighs, like she is a lost case after all.

"You are going to regret this," he tells her.

"No, I don't think I am."

She pushes the door closed and waits to hear him go. She studies the sound of footsteps on the stairs intently. Only after a while she opens the door again and checks there's no one is waiting out there.

She sits on her bed – a folding one again, she normally leaves it open like this, because the flat is slightly larger than her last one – and starts breathing in short, panicked gasps. Why must she feel so defenseless against someone like Ward? And she has the feeling this is not the last time she sees him, anyway. Something in the way he looks at her, like he is just biding his time. Until what?

Her skin crawls.

The night had started with such joy. Now she can't remember how her name in big lights had looked like. That's gone. This encounter has been a useful reminder.

She doesn't feel safe here, even with the door locked. Ward has ruined that too.

All of the sudden she wants to talk to someone, hear a friendly voice. She's being an idiot. She is not like this, she can normally brave any storm on her own, she's even made a point of it. She can handle herself. She knows whose voice she wants to hear. But it's impossible. She shouldn't. She doesn't have the right.

She knows she can't phone Coulson. She knows he's probably with Audrey, it seemed like they had made plans for after the movie. She shouldn't interrupt them. It would seem petty, given the circumstances.

But she is scared.

She didn't think someone like Grant Ward could scare her but he does.

She's terrified.

"Hello?" she says into the phone. "I didn't want to bother you but –"

 

+

 

She didn't want to _bother him_? What the hell is wrong with this woman?

To come inside this tiny flat to find a terrified Skye apologizing for spoiling _his_ evening. Should he be offended? Does she think so low of him? It hurts.

And yet – he was the one she called.

"It's silly, I know," she says, standing in the middle of her one-room flat. She's still wearing her dress from the premiere and she is crossing her arms, trying to hide the fact she's shaking.

"It's not silly," Coulson says, staring at her with a heavy heart. _She didn't want to bother him_. Did she imagine he wouldn't care? Or that he wouldn't come and as soon as he could? And why should Skye have any good opinion of him anyway? After all he had slept with her and tossed her away in the most cruel fashion. After all Coulson is exactly like the rest of men in this town, out to take advantage of and hurt people like her. How exactly is he any better than Ward? "It's not silly – Ward is _dangerous_. You were right to phone me."

Skye has just told him what he said about his brother, about the new studio, which lines up with what Fury said to Coulson, and with the insistent rumors that Howard Hughes is selling a lot of backlot land to a new player, dismantling the RKO.

"You think he'll go to the FBI?" Skye is asking. "To – to _punish_ me."

"I honestly don't know," he replies, hoping he could be more reassuring. What's in the head of someone like Ward he doesn't know, and he doesn't want to.

Skye nods, drawing a deep breath. Coulson looks away from her, giving her a moment to herself. He studies the flat instead. So very much like her old flat, the one that had made him feel so impossibly ashamed of his own wealth. In a slightly better area of the city, but not by much. Her books, her records, even a screen to change clothes behind. She must like that screen. And the big gramophone. He realizes she has pictures of the movie crew stuck to the mirror above her dresser. Pictures Mack took while in San Juan. Five or six of them. Her and Simmons and Bobbi posing in a fake cocketish posture. A funny candid of her helping Trip with his Army uniform. One of Cal in a good day. Shooting the kiss scene with Hunter. A landscape shot of El Morro. Her and Coulson on the beach, Coulson with his arm around her back casually. She even keeps a picture of the last night on the island. Why would she keep that one? It's one of her and Coulson listening, rapt, to some story Hunter and Hartley are telling. Coulson doesn't remember the story. He doesn't remember the way Skye must have been leaning foward in her chair, trying to catch what Hartley was saying through the noise and the music of the place, the way she was leaning over Coulson just like that, and their shoulders were happily pressed together. Coulson wishes he could take this one picture home. He lifts his hand to grab it.

"I'm sorry," she says when she notices him touching the photograph. "Maybe I shouldn't keep that stuff. I'm very stupid."

"No, it's fine," Coulson mutters, struck by the thought that Skye has had these pictures all this time, has looked at them every day. Could she still...? No, of course not. "They're nice pictures."

When he turns around Skye is not looking at him or the photos, she's looking beyond him, her face gripped in some terrible and profound fear.

"Skye?"

"I knew the risks, you know," she tells him, her voice sounding like it's very far away. "Or that's what I told myself. When I started this. I knew I could end up..."

He watches her hand wrapped around her other arm, like she was feeling naked and wanted to cover herself. It's shocking, because Skye is the bravest person he's ever met. It makes him feel scared for himself, too, for everyone he knows. Tonight, the manufactured premiere, the illusion of safety, even the relaxed drink with Audrey as if no time had passed at all since those days. It was all a lie. The world has fallen apart, the sky has fallen on their head, all the while they were sipping champagne and worrying about Louella's column.

"The great, proud _comrade_ ," Skye says, chuckling uglily. "And what I am is just weak."

"Skye, there's nothing wrong with being scared. We all are."

"What am I going to do?"

"You could... leave," he says. He told her about Fury's offer, about a studio outpost in Europe. He also knows from Blake that you can pay the FBI to avoid being called, little brown envelopes passed from hand to hand. He doesn't think that's a solution he should ever mention to Skye. She would probably slap him.

"Dodge the subpoena?" she repeats. "Can't do that."

"I know," Coulson sighs.

"I've been telling everbody to stay strong, what kind of example...? I've been saying they can't put all of Hollywood in jail. They can't, can they?"

He honestly has no idea. Before all this, before this movie, before Ward's betrayal, he would have thought it wasn't possible. But now Victoria Hand is in jail. Paul Robeson's concerts cancelled by the FBI. Charlie Chaplin hounded out of the country. Natasha Romanoff deported. John Wayne is already making a movie where he plays a brave HUAC investigator, while Republic Pictures is preparing something called "The Red Menace". Clients are breaking their contracts with Blake, friends of Coulson are burning or burying suspect books in their backyards, they are burning Upton Sinclair, John Steinbeck. It looks like they are fighting not just a lost battle but a lost war.

"I don't know what's going to happen," he admits. "I don't know what they can or can't do."

Skye focuses her gaze again. It's hard imagining movie stars in jail but when Coulson looks at Skye she still looks like a normal person, like the only real person he's ever met.

He's so useless, he realizes. He can't offer comfort or certainties. He can only tell her the truth.

" _We_ are still here," he says. "We'll figure something out."

He tries touching her arm, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"They can't call me, Coulson," she tells him. "If they call me I won't name names. And they'll throw me in jail. And I can't go to jail."

"It's okay, it's okay," he says, pulling her into a hug. She feels warm and small in his hands. He should have done this half an hour before, as soon as he walked into her room.

"I'm sorry," Skye says, though Coulson has no idea what the hell she thinks she should apologize for. He's not sure he wants to know.

He sits her on the bed, trying to calm her down. He keeps caressing her nape as Skye tries to even out her breathing, concentrates on it. They stay like that for some time.

"It's been a long night, uh?"

Skye chuckle-sobs into his neck.

"It's okay," he tells her again. "We'll find an answer."

"And what if we can't?"

He grabs her shoulders and gently disentangles her from their embrace. Her big eyes, shining with tears, gaze at him in confusion. She's already pulling away, like she's the one who has overstepped the boundaries. Coulson pulls away quickly, too, trying to get some distance between them – because that's the only way he can get the words out.

"I think I need to marry you now," he tells her.

Skye frowns a bit, thinking hard, like he has just given her a very comlicated matemathical problem. Then she nods slightly, like she figured it out.

"Because you think that way they can't make you testify against me, like spouse privilege?" she offers.

"No," Coulson says. "Because I love you."

Her eyes go very wide, like this is the last thing she has ever expected to hear from him.

"Oh," Skye says. "That's a good reason, too."

She presses her mouth against his, grabbing the collar of his shirt carefully.

The kiss is so sweet, so shy; surprising, really, for someone as bold as Skye. Not so surprising, maybe, after how he's treated her. Coulson wraps one arm around her shoulder, keeping the touch light, and pulls her closer, kissing her back. They make it last this time. It's still tentative, like it's their first kiss. Maybe it is. 

When she pulls away Coulson can't believe the look in her eyes.

"I'm so stupid," he says, hopeless.

Skye widens her eyes at him and nods vehemently.

"Yes! You are the stupidest man I've ever met," she says. Then her expression softens and she lifts her hand to his chest. "But you're also the best one. So I can't complain."

"I hurt you," he says.

She drops her gaze.

"Yes..." she mutters, then looks up at him again. "I'm not going to tell you you didn't."

He threads his fingers through her hair, brushing locks apart to see her face better. How long has he wanted to do that? Since the first moment he saw her, of course.

"Will you marry me then?" he asks again.

She tilts her head to one say, smirking dangerously at Coulson.

"I haven't decided yet."

He chuckles. "Girls prefer it that way?"

She bites her bottom lip.

"I just need to do something before I decide."

She grabs his wrist and twist his arm until he is on his back on the bed. She climbs on with him, stradding him against the matress, her legs around his hips. Do whatever you want, Coulson thinks, as Skye starts caressing his body over his clothes. He's still wearing his raincoat, the tuxedo he bought for her premiere.

He turns his head on the pillow, to look at his surroundings. He feels so at home here between Skye's things, her books and records, her meager possessions, just like when he met her, the humble romantic life in a furnished room. He was always drawn to her world.

Skye slips her tongue inside his mouth and he closes his eyes, letting her explore with patience.

"Skye...Will you make love to me?"

"That's the idea, you dummy," she says, sliding her mouth over his throat.

Time starts slipping away from between his fingers, very tenderly, as Skye moves over him. She undresses him and he watches her undress from the bed, still hungry for each other but in such a different way than what he felt in San Juan. And the lights are on here, they can see each other, unlike the first time. Coulson can run his fingers, reverently, across the youthful scars on her stomach.

"Are you sure?" she asks, right the moment before, balancing herself with her hands on his shoulders.

Coulson wishes he could have a screenwriter at hand, on payroll 24/7, because how else does a man say what he feels in this city. He wishes he could pay someone five hundred a week to put into words that he needs to tell Skye. But he doesn't have that. There's no falling back on a script, there's no repeating the shot. He's alone with Skye, no fancy monologues like he wishes.

"I love you," he says, covering her left cheek with the palm of his hand.

Skye smiles down at him, hair covering her eyes, and she lifts her hand and touches her fingers against the back of Coulson's and she starts moving, starts making love to him.

It's strange, how slow and careful they are now, and yet for Coulson it feels like it's over even quicker than in San Juan.

And when it's over Skye takes him in her arms, draws the bed covers over their bodies, and presses her chest against Coulson's back.

"Fine," she breathes against his shoulder. "I'll marry you."

"When?" he asks, anxious. "Tomorrow?"

Skye laughs, and in the darkness and skin against skin it's like a little earthquake inside the room.

But she shouldn't make fun of him. He doesn't know how long until one of them ends up in court or in jail. And he doesn't want to waste more than time that he already has.

"Okay," Skye says, finally, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest. " _Tomorrow_."


	10. I Married A Communist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Q: Did the blacklist seem to come in quickly, or with ominous slowness?  
> A: Ominous slowness. I knew it was coming in 1947, actually at a time when my career was really in its ascendancy.
> 
> Q: Did you have any feeling that it would spread so far and so deep?  
> A: I thought it would be worse. It was only twelve years for me. I thought it would be _forever_."  
>  Tender Comrades: A Backstory of the Hollywood Blacklist by Patrick McGilligan and Paul Buhle.

In the end she is not the one to receive the subpoena.

They have a paupers' wedding, humble and joyful, in East LA. It's not the next day, but it's the next week, hurried and poor-happy. A small church full of sunlight. Other than the crew of "I'll See You In San Juan" and the unexpected additions of Maria Hill, Felix Blake, there are no guests. No journalists, no fans. No Hollywood wedding at all. And no families, because bride and groom, they don't have other family than this. Cal takes a day out from the clinic and asks to give Skye away, still trapped in that fantasy. Skye indulges him. Trip plays best man. Simmons keeps saying how beautiful everything looks, the white roses specially. Mack, their unofficial official photographer, makes them laugh as they pose. 

Coulson wears a 1930s tux, almost parodying the man he once was. Skye wears a summer dress, not wanting to spend her money on something more proper, not having any money to spend. With everyone in the ceremony blacklisted – and she thinks this is an honor, a Blacklist Wedding – they are going to need the money to support each other through the hard times ahead. And everyone has pitched in for today. Coulson can tell Skye is pleased with the feeling of community, pooled resources. Skye hides the marriage license from everybody, not wanting people to know her birthname. She tells Coulson the name she had when he met her as is the only one that matters, and now the one she is taking from him.

They all go back to his house to celebrate after the ceremony. He realizes it's probably the last chance they have to be together in this place. He's lived here for over ten years, it feels weird, this kind of farewell. Coulson thought he'd feel more sentimental about it.

The place has its advantages, at the moment, the thick Spanish-style columns perfect so that he can hide with the bride for a moment, away from prying eyes. Coulson keeps grabbing at the hem of her dress, tugging, and Skye keeps laughing against his neck and sipping from the champagne Bobbi so generously donated to the cause.

"Can't we get all these people out of here?" Skye asks, insinuating her knee between Coulson's legs.

"I think they're our friends," he explains.

"These people?" Skye shakes her head. "I don't know them. Throw them out of here."

Eventually they manage to not completely disgrace themselves behind the column and go back to the party and try to play decent hosts to all these people.

Skye doesn't cry, but she does use Trip's shoulder when she gets a bit sad, a bit uncertain of the future, thinking something might separate them. Coulson doesn't interrupt her moment with her friend, as much as he would want to kiss that sadness away. She recovers quickly, though, and starts playing some of her old records, and people start to dance.

Everything feels slightly... not real, to Coulson.

May catches him in the kitchen, at a low point, staring in amazement at his wedding ring. She squeezes his shoulder.

"Yeah, I would have never called it, either," she tells him, his oldest, dearest friend, so she should know what she is talking about.

He is not sure if it's more miracle or strike of luck, that he is here today.

When everybody is gone he finally takes that pretty dress off Skye, gently pushing her against his bed.

He kisses her legs and stomach with as much patience as he can muster, shocked to think this is his wedding night, until Skye grabs him tenderly by the hair and says _come here_ and he obeys.

"I'm sorry you have to move out of this house," she says looking at the pale peach walls of his bedroom. "All your beautiful things..."

"They're just things," he tells her.

She arches an inquiring eyebrow. "Wow. You have changed."

"Yes, I have changed. I'm so glad I have."

He holds her hand in his, lifting her fingers to the light, surprised to find the golden band still there. Skye catches his expression, she clutches his hand tightly in hers, the ring digging into his skin as they make love.

 

 

+

 

In the end she doesn't get the subpoena.

Coulson does.

It comes as a shock to her. She had been so worried about being the target, and of course she was worried about everyone around her too, but she figured they would go after her first. Maybe she was too much of a nobody after all. Maybe it was something else. Maybe Ward found another way to punish her. 

That night, after Coulson receives the papers and they spend the day with agents and lawyers, considering their options, they lie in bed very quietly, like the world is small and can hear everything they say. For the time being he has moved into Skye's flat, leaving most of his things in storage or with friends, while they figure out what they will do. He doesn't seem to mind, the narrow bed, the tiny closet that can only accommodate a few of his beautiful suits, the rough neighborgood.

There is an FBI car outside her flat every day, at all hours. In case he tries to flee, one might guess.

"Your father was Jewish, right?" she asks, running her hand over his shoulder.

He turns and looks at her surprised. And also with that pained expression he has whenever someone brings up his dad.

"No one knows that," he replies. "How do you–?"

"I have my ways," she replies. "And so do they. Bernard Gordon, Hanns Eisler, Maurice Rapf, Samuel Ornitz... It's not just political affiliations that they are after, Coulson."

She sees him swallow. Not something anyone ever talks about, in Hollywood, that second agenda mascaraded as anti-Communism. She watches as deep lines form in Coulson's brow. Skye throws one arm across his chest, making him turn to face her. She kisses him, knowing that won't dispel his fears, but that's not the point at all.

"I can get you out of the country," she tells him.

His eyes are glazed over, his body relaxed against hers, enjoying her caresses.

"Mmm?"

"You know I'm good at that kind of stuff. I could kidnap you and take you to Mexico."

" _Mexico_?"

Skye props herself on her arms to get better access, kissing the curve where his neck becomes his shoulder. He arches his body to follow her mouth. Whatever the world might be about to do to them, they can't touch this.

"We could have new identities, nobody would know we are disgraced Hollywood people," she goes on, indulging in a fantasy of off-season tourist resorts and anonymous lives. "You could be... let me think... you could be _Pablo Jimenez_."

Coulson chuckles. "Pablo Jimenez? And who would you be?"

"Mrs Pablo Jimenez, of course."

"Of course."

He finally turns on his side, stretching to meet Skye's mouth.

It's not enough yet, she thinks as he slips one arm under hers and pulls her to him. It's not nearly enough, she thinks. Please, don't take this away from me, she pleads. The nights between them like this, she hasn't even begun to scratch the surface of what she feels for the man. How can she let anyone take him away, even by force? No, she thinks, covering his beloved body with her arms, drawing the shape of his scar with her kisses, protecting him with her body like it's something vulnerable and sacred.

"You okay?" he asks, holding her chin between his thumb and his index.

She nods, brushing her nose against his collarbone.

"I feel like this is my fault," she says.

"It's not."

She lifts her head, ready for a serious conversation. 

"Don't tell me you don't think Ward did this?"

"I have no idea. And I don't care."

"Ward always hated you," she points out.

Coulson looks surprised.

"What the hell did I do to him?"

Skye smirks at him. "What did y–? Nothing. But I think he always suspected I had a crush on you."

She kisses his cheek, the shell of his ear, the lovely graying hair of his sideburn.

"A crush, uh?" Coulson groans.

"Okay, okay, he suspected I was _madly in love_ with you. Better?"

Coulson scoops her in his arms and turns her on her back, climbing on top.

"Much better," he says, dropping his head for a long and deep kiss.

She knows he doesn't want to talk about this.

But this thing, it has thrown all her predictions of what their life was going to be out of the window.

"I'm sorry you married me in a hurry just because you thought I was going to go to jail. Now you're stuck with me."

"Yes, I'm regretting that so much."

She grabs his wrists and turns the tables, coming on top of him, fucking herself slowly on him while all she can think about is how many more times will she be able to do this before Coulson ends up in jail. Of course they still don't know if he is going to jail, but she has to think about the worst case scenario. She is also wondering if there are more people out there like them, lovers going through the same thing, believing the other is going to be torn from their side. People like the men in the Committee, people like the Wards, how thoughtlessly they can cause this kind of pain. How arrogant of them, too, to think they can take Skye's husband from her?

Coulson lifts his hand to her face, mistaking her anger for worry.

"I wish you'd consider Fury's offer," he tells her, thinking way too ahead.

Skye still hasn't let go of his wrists.

"Let's see what happens in DC, okay?" she says.

"I don't even know what I'm going to say."

"No one really does, when the moment comes," Skye tells him. She has known enough people in Coulson's situation. She knows the last-minute stage fright before the tribunal. "In any case I know I'll be proud of you."

He nods.

"I know you think I'm protecting you, telling you to take Fury's offer," he adds. "But I'm really not. I just think you're the perfect person for the job."

Skye scrunches her face.

"Let's focus on you, okay? You need to be thinking about the tribunal."

He growls, narrowing his eyes at her. But Skye doesn't want to think about _her_ future. She'll manage, like she always does.

"Are you ready for the questions?" she insists. Coulson nods again. She uses her lowest baritone voice. "Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"

"No," Coulson says, thrusting up, Skye moaning over him. "But my wife is."

"That's very dangerous, Mr Coulson, very troubling. Very unpatriotic of you to marry such a person. She's probably influenced you with her toxic Soviet ways."

"Oh yes," he says, cupping her breasts in his palms. "I've been _exposed_ to dirty Communist propaganda."

"This tribunal can see that. Are you ready to receive the appropiate punishment?" she whispers, clenching around his cock.

Coulson starts laughing.

"What?"

"I was thinking that if they sentence me for contempt of Congress I'll be thinking of this very moment, I'll be thinking _you chumps, you have no idea_."

Skye laughs too, a bolt of pleasure through both their bodies.

"I guess it makes it almost worth it, if they find you guilty of contempt."

"It is worth it," he tells her, more seriously, holding her head in his hands, still moving inside her, rolling his hips with frustrating slowness. "It's all worth it."

 

 

+

 

"You don't have to do this," Hill is telling him.

"No, I think I have."

It's kind of sweet of her to accompany him to the House. She tries to talk him out of it one last time.

She looks at him, worried for him. To be perfectly honest, despite the great admiration between them, Coulson had never been quite sure Hill liked him personally. But she seems to be having trouble accepting Coulson's fate so maybe, after all, they can even consider each other friends.

Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe they are just Fury's orders. Or maybe Hill didn't want Coulson to go through this day alone.

He told Skye he didn't want her inside the courtroom. Not because he thought he was going to lose resolve – if Skye were by his side Coulson is pretty sure the chances of him becoming even more _unfriendly_ as a witness and outright insulting the Committee would rocket. It wasn't that. He didn't want her in the middle of it all, the packed room, the cameras. The press would probably make an spectacle of her presence; how many gossip papers back hom had blamed her for SHIELD's downfall. How many rag sheets, people like Raina and Ward feeding the information, had painted Skye as the opportunist starlet who had taken advantage of the dirty ageing director to further the Soviet agenda. She protested, of course, wanted to offer moral support – but she accepted it was his decision in the end, he was the one facing the Committee after all.

So she left Skye at the hotel and came here with Hill, promising they'll do some sighseeing later, as Skye has never been in the city. When Coulson told Hill of this plan and asked her to recommend a restaurant for a romantic dinner Hill looked at him as if he was a crazy man who had married a even crazier woman.

Coulson himself is not that worried about bad press. They have already had all the bad press they could ever get.

He just hopes he doesn't have to testify after someone ludicrous, like Gary Cooper or Leo McCarey.

"That's what you are worried about?" Hill asks, rolling her eyes.

Coulson smiles at her. He is scared, of course, but also strangely calm. There's not much he can do about it all right now. He'll do what he has to do, and the Committee will do what they always do.

"Are you worried I'll soil the name SHIELD?" he teases.

"Come on, Phil, be serious," she says, and she finally stops pacing through the little waiting room and goes to sit by Coulson's side. "We can still walk away from here. You and me, let's go. They won't send the National Guard after you, you're not that important."

"You wound me."

"I could have you and Skye on the next boat to Lisbon," Hill tells him, very seriously.

And she probably could. Fury probably instructed her to say that, and put some funds away in case he said yes.

"I can't run away, Maria," Coulson says. "I just can't."

"It isn't running away."

"It would be, for me."

"What do you hope to accomplish here?" Hill talks to him like he's a proud little kid.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Maybe the guy whose number is after mine will see me refusing to answer the Committee and it will give him strength to do the same."

"So you want to change the world?" she asks.

"Yeah, I think I do."

It sounds ridiculous, he doesn't blame Hill for the face she's making now. It sounds ridiculous, changing the world, _him_? It sounds ridiculous, or it used to, anyway.

"All because of a girl," Hill comments, with a little too much cynism.

Coulson smiles, because he doesn't mind that assumption, he doesn't mind at all, that he is doing this for sentimental reasons.

"No," he replies. "All because she _talked_. And I listened to her. But you are right. I'm doing this today because I can't let Skye down. And all through this I keep asking myself: what would she do if she were in my position? And suddenly everything becomes very clear, very simple."

Hill shakes her head, like she's angry at him, and Skye, and runs her hands through her face.

Coulson realizes it's not anger – it's sadness.

He wraps his fingers around her elbow and she stares at him, stunned, as he pulls her closer.

He doesn't think he and Hill have hugged before. What curious things happen, at the end of the world.

 

+

 

" _Eighteen_ months," Skye repeats, the day before he has to leave for prison. Like she had somehow forgotten the number in the meantime.

Coulson shakes his head. "I used to think that wasn't that long. I'm such an idiot."

"Hey," Skye says, hugging him from behind. "None of that tonight."

If she had promised she wouldn't get sad this last day and is keeping her promise then Coulson should be perfectly able to do the same.

She grabs his hips and turns him around. She looks at him, trying not to get gloomy about it. She had a pretty awkward phone conversation with Hartley this morning – for some reason Skye felt the urge to call her and ask her for advice, as she is the one person Skye knows who has gone through exactly the same thing, the same day as today. Hartley's advice was to make these hours count, not for her, but for Coulson.

"Let me," she says, taking the tie in her hands and sliding it around his neck. "But don't get used to it. I'm not the tie-knotting kind of wife, this is just a special occassion."

Coulson looks at her very intently. Like he is trying to memorize her. Maybe he is.

"No, you are the strike-organizing kind of wife," he teases.

"Aren't you lucky, Phillip Coulson?"

He doesn't reply but she looks at her like he feels very lucky indeed. Well, she herself knows she's not that much of a catch, and for how smart Coulson is right now she is glad he's too dumb to realize that. He wouldn't be here now, in a tiny rented flat, hours away from the start an eighteen-month prison sentence, if it wasn't for Skye.

"Done," she says, looking at him. She left the tie a bit loose, like she prefers in him, and it goes well with the black stylish suit she bought for him, one like the modern kids wear these days.

"So where are we going?" he asks. "Not a party with the crew. I told you I have already said goodbye."

"No, no parties. Tonight is just for me and you. But it's a surprise."

"Skye."

"Don't worry, you'll like the surprise."

He throws his arms around her neck, kissing her temple.

"Can't we just stay here?" he whispers.

"No," she tells him. Then she smiles against the beginning of a kiss. "That's _later_."

 

+

 

First she takes him to a drugstore to have dessert.

No dinner, just dessert. 

"I've missed this pie," she says.

"It's really good," he replies, because it is. The place seems pretty dingy and out of the way, so it's a surprise. Is this the surprise? He wonders.

"I've been wanting to go back here and have dessert for ages," Skye tells him, kissing his cheek. "Thanks."

"I thought you were paying," he protests.

"I used to come here all the time when I was out of work," she tells him. "And then when I wanted some me-time."

Looking around it's all out-of-luck actors waiting for their agents' calls. It's all youths with little cash to be somewhere else. Those who can make it to the movies or a concert. Those too young to have a place of their own. Those in the humblest of humble dates with their sweethearts.

Just like Coulson, in a way. 

Skye kisses him with a chocolate milkshake taste and with little shame, like they are kids.

"I have a favor to ask," Coulson says, touching the back of her hand.

"What?"

"Can I take the picture of us on the beach with me? The one Mack took in San Juan?"

He's allowed to take some personal objects inside and he has been thinking about this. Not just having a picture of her, but knowing it's a picture she's looked at.

Skye gives him a warm smile and hooks her finger around the knot of his tie.

"Well, the marriage contract did specify what's mine is yours, so..." she shrugs, tugging at him and kissing him. Coulson has to wrap his hand around the edge of the counter for balance.

"Is this where you wanted to take me?" he asks.

"Of course not," Skye says, finishing her milkshake. "Come on, we don't want to be late."

She makes him cross the city on foot – the repo men took away his red convertible, Coulson is still a bit heartbroken about that – before finally taking a tram east. Of course he should have known where she was taking him, what's in this neighborhood. He's a bit slow on the uptake tonight.

"The Tide?" he asks, as they make the sidewalk in front of it.

"Trust me," Skye says. "You'll like it."

It's packed tonight, which seems strange to him, but there is a table next to the band reserved for him and Skye. It takes them a long time to get there, though, because everyone on the staff stops Skye to greet her, even people she has never met. She's the star around here and Coulson is somehow bashfully pleased to be playing just the husband for an evening. 

They have a nice time, drinking and chatting and listening to the music while Skye criticizes the new band members and tells him stories of her nights in here, and even the stories with a sinister edge (like the one about her losing her flat and having to sleep in the storage room upstairs, while hiding the fact from her boss) she makes them sound amusing. Coulson gets what she is doing, trying to tell him everything he still doesn't know about her, taking him somewhere important, like she feels she has to give herself up completely before he leaves tomorrow, so he'll at least have that.

But he doesn't quite understand _why_ they are here until one of the waitresses takes to the stage and announces a very special one-night performance by one of The Tide's favorite singers.

The cheers take Coulson by surprise. He looks around and everybody seems to know who Skye is. They seem to have come here to watch her. Who did Skye tell beforehand? Has she organized the whole thing?

"It's been a while," she says from the stage, sitting besides the pianist. "I might be a bit rusty, let's see."

Rusty is not how he would describe Skye's performance. He has seen her work enough times to pick on the nuances. Tonight she is relaxed, enjoying the task. She normally tries too hard, most of the time, but she seems to have grown out of that, attacking this version of "You're the Top" with gusto. Coulson knows she's doing it for him – he loves to watch her sing. But she's doing it for herself too.

He just have to look on with pride.

" _But if baby I'm the bottom you're the top._ "

When she finishes the crowd claps wildly. Skye might be a pariah everywhere else in the city but here? Here she's a queen.

She tells the audience to quiet down as she addresses them directly, walking between the tables.

She clears her throat dramatically.

"Thanks for that. It's nice to be home. Some of you might already know but the thing is... I recently got married," she says and the audience groans. "I know, I know, what a disappointment. I can hardly believe it myself. This is the guy, by the way."

She comes up to Coulson, pointing and the spotlight moves to find him. The audience protests even louder, obviously indignant that someone like Skye could have made such a choice.

"Thank you," Coulson mouths sarcastically.

She laughs.

"I know, I know, he doesn't look like much," she tells the audience. "But he's one of the good ones. Believe me. This is actually his last night of freedom before he has to start a eighteen-month sentence for contempt of Congress, thanks to the tireless efforts of the House Un-American Activities Committee. A round of applause for my guy."

The whole place bursts into applause but not because Skye has told them too. Coulson feels a rush of warmth and admiration coming his way. He remembers this is a place for so-called subversives, there must be more than a few Party members around him, and left-wing musicians and actors, people who have been hit, and hard, by the blacklisting. He suddenly realizes what Skye meant, calling this place home. And in a weird way Coulson feels like it's his home too.

"Since it's his last day of freedom for a while I wanted to do something nice for him," Skye goes on. "I wanted to take him out on the town and bring him to the best joint of LA." More loud cheering. "And I wanted to sing a song for him, if that's all right with you all. You know, one last song before taking him home and screwing his brains out, of course."

Laughter.

Then the music starts.

Skye winks at him.

" _The way you wear your hat... the way you sip your tea_ ," she starts. Coulson has to laugh at the choice. " _The memory of all that... no, no, they can't take that away from me._ "

He can barely believe this is the same girl, so far away from him, so mysterious, he came to see in this very same place, last Christmas. To say that a whole life has passed since then would be a gross understatement.

It really does feel like the last night on earth, this moment, and it is very sweet.

" _The way you haunt my dreams_."

He wonders what the columns would say if they caught him like this. _Impromptu Soviet Send-Off For Commie Traitor And His Too-Young Mistress_. Nevermind journalistic integrity, it's a good headline.

Months ago Coulson was a big Hollywood shot, dining at Ciro's and taking the helm on million dollar productions.

And now he's just this guy.

And god, he doesn't miss the good old days one bit.

Still singing Skye grabs the back of his chair and climbs onto his lap. The crowd is all laughter and "aw"s.

" _The way you changed my life_..."

She has that one all backwards, he thinks.

It doesn't matter that the audience can't hear too well – they don't mind – because that last part Skye basically whispers, more than sings, into his ear.

It's one of those disgustingly heartwarming moments Skye would scorn in movies, and she'd be right to. But Coulson is old fashioned and he appreciates her effort.

"Thank you," he tells her, when the song is over.

"Of course," she says, kissing his cheek. "You're a hero around here."

"A hero in The Tide... What a strange life you've made me live."

And god, he's so grateful for it. All the strange, strange things. Like having this woman sitting on his lap right now, kissing him and lacing their fingers together, and him wearing her wedding ring. And he's not a brave man but he thinks eighteen months in prison is nothing, compared to this.

 

+

 

She doesn't screw his brains out.

That night, when they come back to her flat from the club, Skye is slow and gentle over him, knowing he'll be lonely for a while. The blinds are open to let the moonlight in, so they can look at each other's faces but without the intrusive light of her ugly bedside lamp.

They are lying on her sides, her leg thrown over Coulson's hip as he pushes into her with shallow, lazy thrusts, the love-making like a background melody to their conversation.

At some point Skye watches as some strange worry or fear or both comes over Coulson's face. She can't bear the idea that he's scared.

"What's wrong?"

"Will you wait for me?" he asks.

She smiles at him, a bit touched by his sudden attack of insecurity. That's not like him at all.

She touches her fingertips to his mouth.

"I've already waited a long time for you. What's eighteen months more?"

His eyes get big and soft, the color lighter in the moonlight.

He pushes her onto her back. Skye wraps her legs low around his back, pulling him closer, moaning when she feels his cock all the way in. Coulson presses the palm of his hand to her forehead, drawing the bridge of Skye's nose with his thumb.

"I'm sorry I made you wait. I didn't know I was waiting for you."

"It's okay," she says. "Girls know first. I knew since I saw you on that beach. All lonely and handsome."

He smiles shyly, making the lines of his face more pronounced.

"But you were on a mission," he teases.

"Yes, and you made it so much more difficult."

She arches her body to kiss him.

"I don't want to leave you alone," he tells her.

"You're not."

"I always hated my father for that," he confesses. "Leaving my mother alone."

"Coulson..."

"I know it wasn't his fault. Just a stupid horse accident for a stupid one-reel western. But I thought it was selfish of him. My mother cried the day I told her I was going into the business."

He's never really talked that much about what happened, how his father died. Skye can't tell him how grateful she is that he went into the movie busniess, despite his mother's tears, or they wouldn't have met. She runs a comforting hand across his back. He props himself on his hands, looking at her. 

"The truth is..."

"Yes?" Skye asks, bucking her hips. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation.

"I'm scared of prison," Coulson admits with an apologetic smile.

"You'll be okay," she tells him.

He nods, dropping his head to let soft kisses fall on her shoulder. 

"Just – Come back," she says, and then she grabs him gently by the hair and makes him look straight into her eyes. " _Come back_."

He nods again, kissing her mouth. Moving inside her. Making that one last night endless.


	11. Epilogue: Good Girls Go To Paris

_My darling Skye,_

_I once told Hartley I believed every person had it in them to write long and sentimental love letters. I have only recently realized that the question was finding someone to write long and sentimental love letters to. I would not have made fun of Hartley that day, had I known what was in store for me._

_If this missive ends up embarrassing you at least you should make some concessions for an imprisoned man, and the way the idle ways without his freedom and away from family and friends can make him nostalgic. I do not excuse myself for it as I thoroughly enjoy seeing you embarrassed on my account._

_Perhaps you don't approve. Perhaps you knew the risks. I do believe it shows some cosmic irony, that someone like you should find and love a man like me. That you, who are smart and level-headed and clear-eyed and always ready to take on the world as it is, should end up with a sentimental fool like me, a broken man who didn't know he was broken until he met you and you put him to work._

_While your latest words gave me some comfort in that I was not alone in producing long and sentimental letters in this marriage, they also brought me as much sadness as happiness, to read how much pain my absence has caused you. Everything that's good in my life has come out of the days when I was with you and this hiccup in our story, these eighteen months of prologue to whatever wonderful adventure you are going to take me on next, is a small price to pay. If your days seem lonely for now think about how much joy we have ahead._

_As for me, as for your insistence that I reward you with entertaining prison anecdotes, I can tell you this at least: the days are not so bad here, except for the food and the boredom. Don't think I'm merely trying to placate your worries about prison life, or my suffering, nor am I trying to let you off the hook, as you know full well I have landed in this sad place only because of your selfish and reckless political activities and your selfish and reckless love for me. I will hold you responsible for both, my darling. But other than the food and the boredom things are not exactly hellish. There are no hardened criminals here. There are many tax evaders, which of course you would find more reprehensible than violent crime, no doubt. There are two other blacklistees in my block, a screenwriter and a composer, and I have formed a tentaive alliance with them, having similar sentences of over a year. We talk about what we will do when we get out. We try to make a list of top three things to do when we are on the outside. We have agreed on a good glass of scotch and a rare steak. As for the third one... I will not share my personal pick with my fellow immates, as you can understand._

_We all talk about what kind of artists we want to be when we get out of here, the question presents itself as more pressing as the days go by. I think I would like to try writing again, writing scripts. Your idea of a short documentary about the exiled blacklistees in Europe made me long for the days when I was doing work I could be proud of, the Captain America days. It took me a long time and meeting you to recover that, and now I desire to know if that man still lives on inside of me, what kind of stories I could bring to the world, what kind of work you and I together could do. The thing I want the most, once I emerge from prison, after holding you in my arms and making love for days, is working once more with you, in whatever capacity. The days here seems longer and shorter at the same time because of the excitement that idea provokes in me. I realize I should be more pragmatic now, now that I have you as a family. Instead of daydreaming. I should learn to be responsible for us. But I don't think you would like that._

_We made a beautiful picture together and we made beautiful love. I have no doubt it will be so for us again in the future._

_Something funny happened the other Sunday. Like every other Sunday me and the other prisoners were led to the chapel for our weekly session at the pictures. And maybe our jailers are developing some higher sense of humor when applying their tortures because after the obligatory Disney cartoons – in themselves quite the punishment for those of us locked for political reasons – we were treated to a very special feature: something called _I Was A Communist For The FBI_. Something very patriotic and very stupid. The other two Hollywood men laughed with me as if it were a Carole Lombard comedy. But the cherry on top was to come when a little informative credit screen came on at the end of it. A little informative line that told us the picture (though it could hardly be called that) had been inspired by the true stories of courage of men who risked their lives spying on Communists for their country, _men like Grant Ward_. Yes, it was written like that. He even managed a producing credit out of the nonsense. Nobody in the chapel could understand why I was laughing so hysterically._

_That Sunday night I was lying in my bed, thinking of you as always, and thinking how fortunate we were to have crossed paths with men like Ward, how clear everything becomes once we realize people like that could never win against people like us. With all the easiness of his life right now, his film credits, his magazine covers, his money and connections and here I rest in my prison bunk, without money or prospects, writing this letter to my wife continents away from me, and happy that I am not any Grant Ward out there. How happy I am that I am myself, and in love with you, to avoid such a dreary fate._

_To answer to the question in your previous letter, and I am happy to hear you are settling there so well, no, I didn't know people in Paris did that. And no, do not feel guilty for not staying back so you could visit me. I find it comforting to think of you across the ocean, busy with work, building a new studio, fighting like you always have, keeper of the flame. It makes my days inside this cell seem brighter, and I can walk with my head high knowing you are out there, doing what you do._

_Much love,_

_Phillip J Coulson, Prisoner Number 7551_

_PS. Please thank Trip for his recent package. The prison library is... somewhat lacking, and the good books are in high demand, subject to bribery and systematic corruption. Trip might be disappointed that a man could have spent all of his fifty one years on this planet without having read "Moby Dick" but if one good thing comes out of this imprisonment maybe it will be that I can take care of the poor state of my literary education for the first time in years._

_PPS. I have been thinking a lot about that night at Quinn's party. The night you first talked to me. I have only recently realized that the night a strange girl walked barefoot across the beach to ask me if I was okay, that was the luckiest night of my life._

 

+

 

"What do you think?" Skye asks.

He looks around. More an empty and abandoned aircraft hangar than a movie studio.

The journey from Paris to this spot on its outskirts was bumpy and slow, they'll have to think about an alternative route to bring in the production materials. The cab driver barely knew of the road, kept getting lost. The terrain around them not even a proper backlot, just a forgotten bit of countryside.

"Ah, I can see you running stuff in your head," Skye says, swaying her hips against his side. "You're already thinking of solutions."

"It will be a lot of work."

"No kidding."

"And a lot of money. Where the hell are we going to find the money?"

Skye crosses her arms, fixing him a disappointed look. She must be thinking he's such a killjoy, and on his first day back with her.

"We are going to make _Madonna in concrete_ with Bobbi first, Gaumont co-produces," she tells her. "We should have some money to clean this place after that."

Coulson paces around a bit. The air smells damp and of rust. It will take a lot of fixing for this place to work. And still – 

"I like the ceilings," he says. "Really high ceilings for –"

"Sweeping dolly shots, yes," Skye finishes. "That's why I picked this place for you."

He looks at her, touched. The desire to just take her in his arms and tell her how miserable he was, missing her, is overwhelming. But there's pleasure in postponing that pleasure. And pleasure in the solmenity of the occassion.

"The New SHIELD logo would go there," Skye gestures towards one of the huge steel doors.

"Mmm-uh."

"We'll build your office just right outside."

"And _your_ office?" he asks.

"Right next to it, of course," she replies. "It'll be bigger than yours."

"Yes, it's only fair."

He can hardly bear to look at Skye's face right now. It's not just the separation. She looks so happy, so happy to see him. Joy pierces him at the sight. He touches the spot on his chest where his heart pounds and his scar sings.

"More good news, by the way," Skye informs him.

"Better than a ton of work and being absolutely broke?"

She rolls her eyes. "Guess which American film will open in limited Paris cinemas next April."

" _I'll See You In San Juan_?"

Skye nods. " _I'll See You In San Juan_."

He chuckles. That's a bit of a humble ending for his little movie, but god, he will take it. After all this time and toil and suffering he will take it.

"So. What do you think?" she asks again, looking around, impatient.

She always has to wait a bit for him, but he'll get there, he swears.

He stares at Skye. He takes her hand in his. He's been dying to do that since his plane touched down. He's been dying to do that for a year and a half.

"It's a brave new world," he tells her, and Skye seems to be done with waiting at that, and she takes her husband in her arms and tells him how miserable she was, how much she has missed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coulson's letter was inspired (when not directly lifted) from Dalton Trumbo's letters to his wife.


End file.
